<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>In His Pocket by OmalleyMeetsTibbs</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24282457">In His Pocket</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/OmalleyMeetsTibbs/pseuds/OmalleyMeetsTibbs'>OmalleyMeetsTibbs</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF John Watson, Beating, Broken Bones, Case Fic, Drowning, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Johnlock - Freeform, Knife Violence, M/M, More Johnlock than Mystrade sorry folks, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Organized Crime, Sexual Content, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Smut, Unwanted Sexual Advances, Whump, black market crime, descriptions of violence, dislocation, mystrade, organ harvesting</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 01:28:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>47,260</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24282457</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/OmalleyMeetsTibbs/pseuds/OmalleyMeetsTibbs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Our favorite consulting husbands, John and Sherlock, are investigating a series of disappearances and step into something much larger than they were planning on. Greg and Mycroft are there to help them out when the going gets tough.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Greg Lestrade &amp; John Watson, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes &amp; Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>104</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/gifts">simplyclockwork</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This beast (well for me it is a beast as it is my first long story) came about because of the following Tumblr prompt from <a href="https://simplyclockwork.tumblr.com/">simplyclockwork</a>. She also graciously beta'd this for me and helped me grow in my writing IMMENSELY along the way (you'll probably see the difference as you go along haha). A large portion of the quality of this fic is in her hands. It wouldn't be nearly as good without her :) So thank you! </p><p>The lovely, wonderful, spectacular, gorgeous cover photo art is done by the amazing <a href="https://shellsters.tumblr.com//">shellsters</a> on Tumblr.</p><p>If there are any tags I need to add, PLEASE feel free to let me know!</p><p>Tumblr prompt:<br/>Underwater. His world is a myriad of wet confusion, forcing its way down his throat, pushing into his lungs. Rough hands hold his head under the water, fingernails scraping at his scalp, and yanking on his hair to bring him back to surface.</p><p>John gasps, water streaming down his face, dripping down his neck and soaking his clothes. A pause, a breath, and nothing more, before his face is once more slammed into a watery reality. His last greedy inhale comes too late, sucking water down his throat and suffocating him.</p><p>They keep him under longer this time, until black spots whirl and dance in front of his eyes, vision darkening to sick grey at the edges. When his head is finally pulled up again, a film obscures his view, and he coughs with harsh retches as his body jack-knifes, water escaping his lips and throat in spurts. He groans, eyes closed tight as he hangs limp from a hand in his hair, knees shaking, threatening to give out. John raises his head, face pale and dripping, and looks at the camera, eyes dazed, unregistering. He shakes his head, letting it droop again, and shivers in silence, water running down his body, hair plastered against his skull.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">A soft hand slides down the length of his arm, pulling him from the warm sheets. A golden glow frames him, light dancing in his eyes, a soft smirk on his face, dark curls bouncing across his forehead.</p><p class="p1">“A case, John. Get up! A case!” Sherlock turns to leave, dragging John along behind him. John lets go so he can quickly get ready. Looking after his ridiculous husband flitting around impatiently, John grins. Content.</p><p class="p1">Underwater. His world is a myriad of wet confusion, forcing its way down his throat, pushing into his lungs. Rough hands hold his head under the water, fingernails scraping at his scalp, and yanking on his hair to bring him back to surface.</p><p class="p1">John gasps, water streaming down his face, dripping down his neck and soaking his clothes. A pause, a breath, and nothing more, before his face is once more slammed into a watery reality. His last greedy inhale comes too late, sucking water down his throat and suffocating him.</p><p class="p1">They keep him under longer this time, until black spots whirl and dance in front of his eyes, vision darkening to sick grey at the edges. When his head is finally pulled up again, a film obscures his view, and he coughs with harsh retches as his body jack-knifes, water escaping his lips and throat in spurts. He groans, eyes closed tight as he hangs limply from a hand in his hair, knees shaking, threatening to give out. John raises his head, face pale and dripping, and looks at the camera, eyes dazed, unregistering. He shakes his head, letting it droop again, and shivers in silence, water running down his body, hair plastered against his skull.</p><p class="p1">Maybe he can slip back under, back into bliss, away from whatever this is. There, he is safe. He knows in his real-world—created from the beautiful memories—he won’t lose strength. There, John can protect Sherlock. There, he won’t give him away.</p><p class="p1">In this one, the one his body inhabits, he can’t be so sure.</p><p class="p1">~~~</p><p class="p1">Breath catching in his throat. Heart pounding against his chest. Eyes blurring over the screen in front of him. Ears burning with the sounds of screams. It can’t be. Not John. Please, not John. Not John. Please, not John. Not Joh…</p><p class="p1">Lestrade’s hand comes down on his shoulder, pulling him around and towards the door. Sherlock lets himself be dragged away from the screen with the images slowly skinning him alive, strip by strip. When Lestrade gets them into his office, he sits Sherlock down and closes the door. Body shaking, the blood drains from Sherlock’s face, his normally observant gaze replaced with a fog thick enough to slice. Lestrade places his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders.</p><p class="p1">“We’ll get him back. We will, Sherlock. But you can’t leave us now. Sherlock.” He pulls him into a rough hug, knowing that Sherlock can’t respond, can’t process this fear. The fear of loss, the fear of failure, the fear of life without his John.</p><p class="p1">“He’s strong. We’ll get him out. Bring him home.”</p><p class="p1">~~~</p><p class="p1">A bright light and a slammed door shocks John awake. Still dazed, several hands grip his wrists, aching from the biting steel of the cuffs around them, and haul him stumbling to his feet. Another set wraps a blindfold around his eyes, catching bits of hair in the tight knot. Hands still held, a forward shove wrenches his arms backward by his bound wrists. He catches himself from falling to his knees. Jostled forward. A silent direction to continue on. Echoing footsteps, ahead and behind. Rough, guttural words swirling around. Must be four, maybe five surrounding him. Calloused hands pull back on his wrists, twisting his shoulders around and sending lancing needles through scar tissue from his bullet wound and down his arms. His knees buckle beneath him. Harsh laughter fills the air, bouncing off the concrete walls of the hallway.</p><p class="p1">The gray and black patterned wallpaper ripples before his eyes. The yellow smiley face. The couch here. The chairs there. And over there, he stands facing away, blue dressing gown swaying with his movements, melodies ringing through the air, dancing from the strings of the violin. The way the curls tickle the nape of his elegant neck. His fingers dance languidly across the neck of the violin and the end of his bow. This is John’s favorite. Sherlock, calm, content, and gorgeous.</p><p class="p1">His cuffs are readjusted and his arms strung overhead, stretching his shoulders further than they have been allowed to move since he had woken. How long has it been? 12 hours? 2 days? The lack of natural light and a controlled, shortened sleeping pattern throws off John’s internal clock. He decides it must be closer to the 12-hour mark based on the ache sitting in his shoulders and wrists. But he has no idea how long he was out before that.</p><p class="p1">~~~</p><p class="p1">“Mycroft. They have him.”</p><p class="p1">Sherlock never deigns to call, let alone call Mycroft. Even before he picks up, he knows something is wrong. This one sentence confirms it. The dead sound in his voice, the imperceptible-to-all-but-him waver accompanying it. The thought “Oh, brother mine, what have you done?” runs through his mind.<br/>
<br/>
~~~</p><p class="p1">The camera’s red-eye blinks, unremitting. They removed the blindfold after a few rounds of using his torso as a casual punching bag. Just letting off some steam, it seems. Now, they want him to see his squalor, his hopelessness. But he is a Watson, damn it, a Watson-Holmes. Army doctor and captain. John takes in his surroundings. Large, square, concrete room with a steel door, a drain running along the middle of the floor. He is being held up by a thick chain looped through a metal hook on the ceiling, his toes barely able to reach the floor. Dust rains down around him. Weak point. If he used his full weight to yank down on it, he might be able to break a link in the chain or pull out the hook. He’ll keep that in mind. A screeching sound of metal scraping against metal brings his gaze to the door in front of him. Squealing on the hinges, it swings open. Only three men enter this time.</p><p class="p1">Retreating to his mind, John sees a beaming smile, a mild flush in his cheeks, the gleam of his viridescent eyes. That bespoke suit does wonders for his figure. Accentuating his broad shoulders, his thin waist, his powerful legs, and oh, how it hugged that perfectly formed arse. Sherlock knew exactly what it would do to him, especially on that day. The day they said ‘I do’.</p><p class="p1">John’s head whips around as a fist collides with his zygomatic arch. Dark spots dance across his field of view. That’ll leave a mark. Much easier to handle than the drowning though. Must be why they changed tactics. This isn’t about John; this is about Sherlock. They must want John to appear more lucid for some reason. The air rushes from his lungs. Doubling over as much as his position allows, another particularly potent punch catches him in the solar plexus. There is nothing casual about the violence, now. Gasping for a breath that won’t come, another punch collides with his side. John can feel the pop as his rib cracks, and pain races through his torso. Another strike lands on the scar tissue in his shoulder. Another to the other side of his head, cracking the orbital bone. His vision becomes hazy, images overlapping, as he feels hand after hand on him. Maybe that isn’t why they switched tactics. Maybe this is just more fun. More suiting to their sadism.</p><p class="p1">The camera's red-eye continues to blink, unremitting.</p><p class="p1">~~~</p><p class="p1">Sherlock glares at the screen showing the image of his broken husband. John’s head hangs limp on his chest, blood dripping down, his whole weight supported on his cuffed wrists. Unconscious. Bruises, deep purple and back, mottle his body. Indications of broken bones. It is clear there had been at least three men involved in this beating, based on the various sizes of the bruises. The concrete walls show shadows cast by a single light source from outside the frame.</p><p class="p1">Oh, they are smart. Maybe not clever, but smart, leaving no obvious clues of where John is being held. But he’ll figure it out. He has to. This is John, for God’s sake. Sherlock’s hands tremble as he closes his laptop. In an effort to still them, he steeples his fingers under his chin.</p><p class="p1">A building far enough from others that screams can’t be heard, or at least won’t be called in. A room with no natural light. Concrete. The drain. The drain in the middle of the floor. There is something important about that. But what?</p><p class="p1">John is obviously not being allowed to properly sleep; it’s written all over his face. His shoulder will be aching for weeks after this. If this continues much longer, the damage might be permanent. Irreparable.</p><p class="p1">No, no. Can’t think about that. The location. Must determine the location. Must find John.</p><p class="p1">~~~</p><p class="p1">There is a flurry of activity, people calling out to each other, phones ringing and being answered, files passed around, movement back and forth. Greg looks over the chaos of his department and sighs. “We’ll find him. We have to.”</p><p class="p1">~~~</p><p class="p1">The letters begin to swim before his eyes. The words start to lose their meaning. Details in the pictures glaze over as Mycroft rubs his fingers over his tired eyes. John had disappeared a little over 36 hours earlier. Over 14 since they realized he was taken. Four since they received confirmation. It’s been: a total of 53 hours since Mycroft slept more than a cat’s nap worth of sleep; 37 since he’d eaten more than a few crackers; 33 since his last tea. Maybe it is time to allow a glass of water. That will probably quell some of the disorienting visual symptoms.</p><p class="p1">Mycroft must remain at his best for Sherlock, for John. No, caring is not an advantage. He must remain at his best to find the solution to the problem before him. Oh for God’s sa—for Sherlock, for John, his brother-in-law, his family. He hangs his head in his hands, elbows on his desk, sleeves rolled up. His family. He pours himself a glass of water and drinks it down. The corner of a photo catches his eye. Mycroft pulls it out from beneath several others. Oh.</p><p class="p1">The drain.</p><p class="p1">~~~</p><p class="p1">His feet pound against the concrete, following Sherlock's coat as it disappears around the corner. God, he loves this. The chase. It's in moments like these that John remembers why he fell in love with the madman in the first place. Sherlock makes him feel alive, worthy of life. His beautiful, maddening, brilliant Sherlock.</p><p class="p1">A sharp jab to his cracked ribs brings him to consciousness, air rushing into his lungs as pain shoots through his side. A fist makes contact with his jaw, whipping his head around, as another lands on his kidney. Groaning from the deep aches intermixing with stabbing hot needles of pain, face pale and swollen beneath the myriad of colors, rough hands grip into John’s hair, wrenching his neck sideways, forcing his gaze into the man's cold one before him.</p><p class="p1">"Tell me. How much does he know? What does Mr. Holmes know?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <em>Four days ago</em>
</p><p class="p1">Sherlock slid his hand down the length of John's arm. Especially cheery for this time of day, his warm voice resonated, “A case, John. Get up! A case!”</p><p class="p1">With an obviously exaggerated groan, John rolled towards him, staring as Sherlock flit around the room. John mumbled a barely intelligible, “What time is it?”</p><p class="p1">“Five after the hour.”</p><p class="p1">“And which hour would that be?” John asked with an eyebrow raised. Sherlock, of course, wasn’t in the mood to be questioned; there was a case on. But he could tell John wasn’t having it. It had been a late night at the clinic and now was not the time, whenever it was, to be messing with an ex-army doctor on little sleep.</p><p class="p1">With a huff of annoyance, Sherlock gave in. “Now six after six.”</p><p class="p1">“Christ, Sherlock. Can’t it wait till at least seven?” John asked as he pulled Sherlock’s pillow over his head. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock ripped the bedsheets off of him. That'd get him moving. At the startling change in temperature, John bolted up, his protesting "Oi!" cut short by a mouthful of clothes.</p><p class="p1">"Be ready to leave in half an hour. I’ve called for a cab. That should give you enough time to tidy up and get dressed. I'll have your coffee and a slice of toast ready to take with you. You know how annoying you get when you're hungry. I can't have that today. There's been a potential murder, John! I've not had a good murder in weeks! You know this." Sherlock felt John's gaze follow him around the room as he gestured to punctuate his words.</p><p class="p1">Sherlock must have said the right thing, that or he looked particularly beguiling at the moment, which would be patently ridiculous. John was much too honorable to be caught lusting when there was a case on. But whatever the reason, John conceded. "Alright. Fine. But you owe me a day in bed after this is over." An accusing finger and half-hearted glare accompanied his words.</p><p class="p1">Sherlock waved his hand in dismissal. "Yes, yes. Alright. Get on with it! Only 28 minutes left!" And he shooed him towards the shower.</p><p class="p1">John came out of the bathroom, grabbed his cup of coffee, and asked, “So, why the rush?”</p><p class="p1">“Are you sure you want to waste your last 14 minutes asking that question? You’d cause quite the stir showing up in nothing but that towel,” Sherlock said from his post in front of the microscope. John waited silently for Sherlock to continue, a particularly frustrating yet successful tactic. “Fine. It appears to be an overdose victim, so perhaps not a murder, but I am hopeful. Lestrade wants me to take a look because he can’t make heads or tails of the body left behind. And I want to get there before Anderson has a chance to leak out his stupidity all over the evidence. Now can you please put on some clothes so we can go?”</p><p class="p1">At this last sentence, Sherlock finally looked up from his microscope to shoot a glare at John but was distracted by the sight in front of him. The towel was wrapped low on John’s hips, his chest still damp, his soft, yellow and grey-streaked hair messy from the quick towel-dry. Sherlock let out a quiet, "Oh,” and John nodded. With a wink and a smirk, he put down his coffee and went back to the bedroom to get dressed.</p><p class="p1">Staring after John, Sherlock blinked rapidly several times to clear his head and returned to his microscope. It didn’t work. He was still thinking about his husband getting ready just down the hall. But lives were at stake! Probably. Assuming the potential murderer was a serial killer, or didn't get what he wanted the first time around, it would likely happen again. But the scene would tell more. Pity to have to wait. The game was on, and that meant Sherlock must be on, too.</p><p class="p1">By the time John was ready, Sherlock had composed himself. They donned their coats, and headed out of 221B, calling out their goodbyes and we’ll-be-back-lates to Mrs. Hudson. In the cab, Sherlock was a flurry of finger tapping, leg bouncing, and phone scrolling. Just before they arrived at the scene, John took Sherlock’s fingers in his own, giving them a gentle squeeze. Sherlock gazed down at their hands and breathed in deeply, centering himself back into the physical world. Sherlock glanced up to see John’s small, comforting smile—John really did keep him right. Returning the smile, he let go, and the cab stopped. Sherlock flew out, leaving John to pay. He knew John would probably grumble after him, but pay the cabbie and follow. As always. His dependable John.</p><p class="p1">They entered the alleyway and approached the cordoned-off area. Sally Donovon scoffed at their approach with crossed arms and rolling eyes.</p><p class="p1">"What are you doing here, freak? I thought you only took on the high paying cases now. Realize no one actually wants you to work for them, hmm?” A sneer crept onto Sally’s face. “Come crawling back hoping we'll allow you to play detective on our actual crime scenes?"</p><p class="p1">"You should probably just let us through, Sally." Her glare shifted to John when he spoke.</p><p class="p1">Derision spilled through Sally’s tone like acid. "Oh, is that so? What makes you say that?"</p><p class="p1">"Because, Sergeant Donovan, I asked for them to come, as you well know. Now. Let. Them. Through." Lestrade's sharp command through gritted teeth cut across the garble of noise, shocking Sally. As soon as she heard his voice, her arms dropped, shoulder raised, and fists clenched.</p><p class="p1">"Yes, sir," she grumbled. And the tape was lifted for them to enter the scene. Sherlock glanced over at John with a question in his eyes. John returned the look. Something was off. The tension between the officers was not easily missed. Sally often made her dislike of Sherlock readily known but understood Lestrade’s decisions and was not one to question him in public. But the clenched fists spoke multitudes. She disagreed with something, probably the call to Sherlock. But that was nothing new. This was something else. Sherlock filed it away to consider later, to determine if it was something to do with the case, something with which to annoy her, or something altogether different. But right now, the case was what mattered.</p><p class="p1">Lestrade had cleared the area of excess personal, removing superfluous input that Sherlock needed to filter out. Thank God Lestrade had more than a handful of brain cells to rub together—sometimes. Turning his attention to the area around him, Sherlock walked further into the alley, towards the body. He brought every input to the front of his mind to properly assess it, to avoid missing the data before him. The close brick walls, the asphalt ground—damp, few hours at the most. The smell of wet rubbish filtering through his nose, and over there was the litter to match. The light here was poor; the surrounding buildings blocked the natural light. The bins on either side created poor visibility from either end of the alley, especially for the time of day. And currently, the body was out of sight of any passers-by.</p><p class="p1">"Who called this in?” Sherlock asked.“An anonymous tip? A person experiencing homelessness? If they said they were just passing, saw something suspicious, and came to check on them—or even that they saw it from the street—they were lying. I do hope you realized that.”</p><p class="p1">"Yeah, we got the call from some kid,” Lestrade said. “We think he was walking through and saw the victim, and took the drugs off of the body. Hope it's not cut with anything, or he could be in some serious trouble.” He sighed. “Anderson doubts it. Thinks it's just an overdose. I am inclined to agree, but something wasn't sitting right with me. That's why I called you in. Just tell me what you can.”</p><p class="p1">"Obviously." Sherlock walked over to where the body was slumped against the wall. The face was obscured by the angle at which the neck twisted, hand still holding the syringe in the crook of his arm. Sherlock registered the outfit: the coat, the beanie, the gloves—even the hole in the lower third of the trouser leg. Something felt familiar. When he crouched down to take a closer look at the body and the face, Sherlock inhaled sharply and rocked back onto his heels, closing his eyes. A vice gripped around his heart in brief anguish before fire replaced the blood pumping through his veins. He opened his eyes slowly, gazing back at the face before him.</p><p class="p1">"This was not an overdose. This was a murder.”</p><p class="p1">"Come on, Sherlock,” Lestrade chastised. “You can't possibly know that; you've not even looked at him properly."</p><p class="p1">"I can, and I do." Sherlock stood then, and met John's gaze, knowing he would understand what had just happened.</p><p class="p1">"Oh. Fuck. Oh no. Sherlock, I'm so sorry."</p><p class="p1">"What? What's happened?" Lestrade started, realization slowly dawning. "Oh shit. Sherlock, did you know him?”</p><p class="p1">Looking back at Lestrade, Sherlock nodded. "Yes, he was one of my network. Sal. Saved my life on more than one occasion while I was out here myself. This wasn't an overdose. Someone killed him.” He looked down at the body again and pointed. “You need to test whatever was in that syringe. And make sure to find the kid that called this in, make sure he's safe. I have work to do." With that, Sherlock put his hands in his coat pockets and whirled away, walking quickly away from the scene. John hurried after him. There was work to be done, and he needed a quiet place to do it.</p><p class="p1">———</p><p class="p1">The cab ride brewed in silence. Sherlock stared out the window, seeing and not seeing, observing, without processing. He could not reconcile this new fact into his understanding of the world. Sal was a good man, a bit of the older brother he wished he had—though, Mycroft wasn’t terrible, all be told.</p><p class="p1">He needed to focus, find Sal’s killer.</p><p class="p1">They arrived at St. Bart’s. John a silent guardian, watching over him all the while. There was a crinkle between his brows, fists clenched. He must be worried. Maybe he should be.</p><p class="p1">They left the cab after John paid, and Sherlock waited for him on the curb. When John walked up to him, Sherlock bowed his head to speak softly into John’s ear. “I’m fine. I know you’re worried about me. And you have the right to be. But right now, I’m fine.”</p><p class="p1">John looked up at him, searching his eyes. He must have found something to calm him. “Ok. But we are talking about this later. There are details we need to work out.”</p><p class="p1">“I know. And we will,” Sherlock said. “But first, I need to think. We have to find who killed him.”</p><p class="p1">With a curt nod, they turned and walked into the hospital, headed toward the morgue. When they arrived, it was thankfully empty. Molly off for the day. Sherlock sat among the cold chambers, comforted by the silence; John in the corner, honoring it.</p><p class="p1">Sherlock closed his eyes and walked through the walls of the morgue and into the alley Sal laid in. The brick walls, the damp asphalt ground. The rubbish scent, almost overwhelming. The chattering of the police officers filling the air, their bodies crowding the scene. With a wave of his hand, silence reigned, and the area was clear. Only Sal remained, hidden by the bins on either side. Walking past the bins, damp, Sherlock came upon Sal, clothes partially damp in places. He must have already been dead and placed by the time the rain fell. He made a mental note to have John check when it had rained last.</p><p class="p1">And now, the hard part. Sherlock needed to examine Sal more closely. It was easier here, in his mind palace, rather than out there, in the physical world. He knelt and looked over Sal’s face, hands, arms, neck. His once-bright eyes now dulled. Hand cradled around the syringe. Needle sitting just below the skin of the cubital fossa, the inner elbow. Neck lolled to one side. And wait. Just there.</p><p class="p1">A small fleck of blood. The actual site of injection.</p><p class="p1">Sherlock’s eyes popped open. “John.”</p><p class="p1">“Welcome back, dear,” John teased. “Will you eat something? At least drink something?”</p><p class="p1">“Not now, John. After. Sal had another injection site. One in his neck.” Standing from his seat, Sherlock continues, “When did it last rain?”</p><p class="p1">John pulled out his phone, looking up the weather. “Why does the second injection site matter? The difference in intravenous versus intramuscular poisons and reaction times?” Looking up from the screen, he adds, “Apparently, it rained at four this morning.”</p><p class="p1">“That yes, but it also confirms my convictions that he did not do this to himself. Someone killed him.” Sherlock steepled his hands to his lips and began pacing around the room. “Sal was clever. He cared for others in similar situations to himself. If someone wanted him dead, chose to poison him, and to cover it up with a fake overdose, he must have found out something he shouldn’t.” Sherlock frowned and paused his pacing. “Something larger is happening in the homeless community. I can feel it. I just need to find out now what it is. Sal was killed before four, then. The post-mortem will tell us more.”</p><p class="p1">He turned to face John, looming over him, glimpses of pain flickering over his face. His breathing quickened, body tense, fists clenched at his sides. “I should have let you examine the body before running off. We would know more by now if I had. I let my emotions get the best of me. I won’t let that happen again.”</p><p class="p1">John looked up into his face, eyes shifting between Sherlock’s. He could tell John was holding back from saying something, which meant that a conversation about emotions would be happening after the case was done. What rubbish. But it did somehow tend to help, so Sherlock wouldn’t stop him, as long as it didn’t interfere with the case. John knew better than that, at least.</p><p class="p1">Looking away, Sherlock rubbed his thumbs and forefingers together, agitated, thinking, considering the implications of Sal’s murder.</p><p class="p1">“Fancy a walk? We’ve got work to do.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I did it. Second chapter y'all!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">A few hours later, they reconvened in the flat. John had picked up some curry on the way back, obviously with a plan to make Sherlock eat. But he <em>had</em> promised to eat something back at the morgue. How dull. The fact that John remembered, well, maybe it wasn't so dull after all. Food may be a luxury he needed to give in to during this case, even so early on. The emotional factor, God how he hated it, was definitely taking its toll. Even with how thick of a mask he put on, John could see beneath. He had a way of piercing through to Sherlock's heart that was welcome and not intrusive. This didn't stop Sherlock from inevitably putting up the protective layers anyway. But until their later talk, food it must be.</p><p class="p1">After speaking with a number of his network, Sherlock had returned just a few minutes before John. He knew there was something he was missing, but couldn't yet put his finger on what. The grief fogged his mind in ways he was not familiar with. In the kitchen, Sherlock got down the not-for-experiment plates and the these-are-for-eating utensils. John had followed after removing his coat and shoes, the smell of curry wafting in with him. Sherlock's stomach grumbled. This caring business was very inconvenient, indeed.</p><p class="p1">"Well, it seems at least your stomach agrees with me. Time for you to eat, yeah?” John said, placing the take-out bag on the table and dishing the food onto plates for both of them. “We've just trekked through the streets for hours, you need to take in some calories if you want to keep going like this."</p><p class="p1">Sherlock watched without seeing, running back through his rather unsuccessful jaunt around town. The pieces were all there, he just wasn't able to see the whole picture. It was as if he was assembling a jig-saw puzzle without the picture on the box, and all the pieces were upside down. Not impossible, just immensely more difficult.</p><p class="p1">Sherlock collapsed into the chair across from John, fingers steepled. He methodically nodded his head, rubbing his forefingers from his lips, under his chin, and back again.</p><p class="p1">"Tell me, John. What did you learn on your walk today?" he prompted.</p><p class="p1">"Well, not much really,” John replied. “I couldn't find Jackson or Linda, and no one else seemed to know anything, though they also hadn't seen them in a while, either. And I checked all their usual haunts and some of the safe places we've set up for them. But nothing came up. They probably moved on." John shoved some of the curry in his mouth.</p><p class="p1">Jackson and Linda. Along with Carl, Smithy, and Lee. Oh. <em>OH.</em></p><p class="p1">"They're selling contaminated drugs and taking them. They aren't moving on, they are being taken. That's what Sal figured out! I should have noticed this sooner. This is a pattern. How did I miss this?" Sherlock rubbed his fingertips against his temples, eyes shut tight. "How long have Jackson and Linda been missing?”</p><p class="p1">"Err. Most people said they hadn't seen Jackson in a few months, and Linda probably a week or two at most."</p><p class="p1">Sherlock vaulted out of his chair, knocking it over. “I need to map this out. I need to see how far back this goes. If they killed Sal, they may have killed the others, too. This is big, John.”</p><p class="p1">John snatched the cuff of Sherlock’s sleeve as he went to saunter past. “Not before you put some of that food into your system. You promised. And you need it.”</p><p class="p1">“But, John,” he started.</p><p class="p1">“No buts,” John said. “Just a couple bites, and I’ll let you run after the ones behind this. But you’ll need your strength. And I know you won’t be sleeping, so food it is. Got it?”</p><p class="p1">With a huff and a resigned nod, Sherlock walked back over to his plate. Without sitting or picking the chair up off the floor, he shoveled several bites into his mouth in quick succession. Mouth still full, and food threatening to escape, he asked, “Happy now?”</p><p class="p1">“Very. Thank you. Now off you pop. Use that big brilliant brain of yours.” Sherlock felt his cheeks heat and the hair at the back of his neck rise at the off-handed compliment. But off he went to create the probable timeline.</p><p class="p1">———</p><p class="p1">Sherlock sat cross-legged on the floor surrounded by the notes of his network from the past several years, some discarded to the desk, the chairs, the sofa. Some with added scribblings in fresh ink, all with dates of when this person or that had left the network and, if known, what had happened. The ones closest to Sherlock were those of his network with known drug habits who had disappeared but were unlikely to have moved on without telling someone—most important being, without telling Sal. Amongst them were Jackson, Linda, Carl, Smithy, and Lee. There were at least 10 in the last two years. Almost one every couple of months. How had he missed this before? And why hadn't Sal come to him when he noticed?</p><p class="p1">Unless...</p><p class="p1">Seemingly ready for bed, John shuffled into the room. The light had changed outside at some point.</p><p class="p1">"I assume you’re not coming to bed tonight, love?" John asked in a groggy voice, arms crossed against the chill of the room.</p><p class="p1">"Not now, John. I'm thinking."</p><p class="p1">"That's what I thought. At least stay warm. Here, I'll start a fire. Do you want any tea?”</p><p class="p1">"Will you just shut up? I already said I'm thinking. I would think you knew what that meant by now. Your incessant, inane chattering is distracting.” The venom dripping from Sherlock’s lips filled the air with biting tension. “It's like I'm living with Anderson."</p><p class="p1">Sherlock sensed John stop short in his movement to the fireplace. Only the subtle sound of heavy breathing reached his ears now. Silence, blissful silence. He picked up his last thread of thought where he had dropped it before John had entered his sacred space. Perhaps the reason Sal was killed wasn't just that he had figured out a pattern, but that he had and was planning to talk.</p><p class="p1">He heard John start the fire for him, and then shuffle his way back to the bedroom. That was perfectly fine with him: John sleeping, him working; it was best this way. John was fairly useless when he was tired. Now that Sherlock had determined the reason behind Sal's death, it was time to deduce more about the killer, or—in this case, and more likely—killers.</p><p class="p1">While following this thread, the sound of the door unlocking cut through his senses. Sherlock focused his hearing towards it—eyes shut, body still—heard it open and close with a soft click. John left. Why did John leave? He should have been sleeping. He needed good sleep to be his wonderful, helpful self. Sherlock ran through their most previous interaction. Oh. Well, that would explain it. He sent a quick text.</p><p class="p1">
  <b>You didn't have to leave, you know. I just needed quiet, and I expected you to be sleeping. SH</b>
</p><p class="p1">That should do it. Sherlock slipped back into his mind palace where he could arrange the upside-down puzzle pieces at least by shape, hopefully finding some to connect.</p><p class="p1">First: the facts. One, they were taking drug addicts from the streets of London. Two, they were using tainted drugs to make them easier to transport. Three, Sal had figured out his community was being targeted and was poisoned for it, but they had left his body.</p><p class="p1">Second: the questions. One, why were they taking people? Two, where were they taking people? Three, why didn't they take Sal?</p><p class="p1">Third: the probable answers. One, some sort of human trafficking, some sort of experimentation, with a potential for black-market trading of some sort, or serial killers—though that would be an odd victim type, not overly specific. Two, based on the area from where the victims were being taken, they were probably transported to somewhere outside of London. Three—based on probable answer point two—they most likely couldn't do whatever they normally do with the victims to Sal's body after killing him due to the distance of travel to their location. He didn't match their type, so he wasn't worth taking with them. But Sal did need to be dealt with because of what he knew.</p><p class="p1">If only Sherlock could figure out how much he had known. Sal was smart, clever. He may have written it down somewhere. He decided to go back to Sal's normal spots and see if he had left anything. But that could perhaps wait until it was light.</p><p class="p1">Opening his eyes now that he had a next step, Sherlock found his phone. One missed message.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Bit not good, Sherlock. I'm staying with Lestrade for the night. You owe me.</em>
</p><p class="p1">Sherlock stared at the screen. John only stayed the night elsewhere when he was really upset with Sherlock. ‘Bit not good’ was right. He would have to make it up to John somehow, but he would figure that out later. There was a case on, so that meant Sherlock must be on, too.</p><p class="p1">
  <b>Right. Sleep well, then. I know where we need to go tomorrow for the case. Text me when you're up. SH</b>
</p><p class="p1">And with that, Sherlock reheated some of the curry. It would be a while before the sun was up.</p><p class="p1">———</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Alright. I'm up. Still pissed, though. Where are we going today? </em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <b>Start by coming home, please. SH</b>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Fine. </em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>I'm leaving my bag at Lestrade's. </em>
</p><p class="p1">Oh. Not good. Really not good. Sherlock needed to play. John always liked it when he played, and Sherlock liked how it made him forget, if only for a little while. He donned his blue dressing gown. It always made him feel more at ease, ready to flow with the music. He picked up his violin, and as he placed it delicately under his chin. Positioning himself in front of the long window, black and white patterned wallpaper to his right. The yellow smiley face stared down at him. He began to play.</p><p class="p1">As the melodies rang through the air, dancing from the strings of the violin, he swayed. The blue dressing gown moved with him. He felt his hair tickle the nape of his neck as his curls moved in harmony with the rest of him. His fingers danced languidly across the strings. Sherlock finally felt calm and content, even in the midst of the storm.</p><p class="p1">When he finished, he brought down the instrument and opened his eyes, not realizing he had closed them at some point, lost in the music. Sunlight streamed through the window, warming his skin. He turned around and found John relaxed, staring at him from his red chair.</p><p class="p1">"How long have you been waiting?" Sherlock asked as he packed up his violin.</p><p class="p1">"Just since the start of that last song. By the way you missed me coming in, I take it you've been at that for a bit, yeah?" John said with a slight gesture of his chin.</p><p class="p1">Sherlock looked back towards the window with the light coming through. "Well, it was just twilight when I started, so it appears so, yes."</p><p class="p1">"You've been playing for two hours, love. You missed my text saying I was on my way.” That adorable, damn crinkle appeared between John's brows. “Are you alright?" Perhaps some of the anger had dissipated while he listened to the music.</p><p class="p1">"I am now, yes. The playing helped." Sherlock walked towards the door, putting on his shoes and coat. John followed behind. "Ready?"</p><p class="p1">"When you are."</p><p class="p1">Oh, his ever-dependable John.</p><p class="p1">———</p><p class="p1">After visiting several of Sal's normal spaces and finding nothing, Sherlock was beginning to feel agitated and twitchy. If they didn't find anything, they would have just wasted a day when they could have been searching for Sal's killer instead of Sal's things. John was keeping his distance. Normally, he walked shoulder to shoulder with Sherlock, now he walked just a step behind. Whether this was because he was still upset with Sherlock or didn't want to get his head bitten off, Sherlock couldn't tell. Either way, it made him more frustrated. Horrid cycle, that.</p><p class="p1">As they came up to the last of Sal's known boltholes, Sherlock sensed something in the air. This stop had what they needed, he could tell. The hair on the back of his arms stood on end telling him there was something more that he noticed. <em>Oh.</em> Recent footprints leading to the area. Someone else was here. With a finger pressed to his lips, Sherlock turned around to warn John of the potential danger. Who else would want to look through Sal's things? He planned to find out.</p><p class="p1">Stalking forward, making sure to place his steps gingerly to avoid alerting the intruder, he heard John muffle the sound of him cocking his gun. He must have picked it up while Sherlock was playing this morning. As they approached the entry point of the hideaway, a man backed out of the area, turning around as he did. He came face to face with Sherlock.</p><p class="p1">"Well, hello,” Sherlock said. “What do we have here? A bit of liberation, I presume?"</p><p class="p1">After a moment of hesitation, the thief, loot in hand, sprinted off down the road.</p><p class="p1">"Why do they always run?" John huffed beside him as Sherlock and he took off after the man. Sherlock had longer legs and soon out-paced John, flying around the corner with his coat flowing behind, feet pounding against the concrete. God, he loved this, the chase, John bringing up the rear, over-taking the criminals. Perhaps John was feeling this, too. His adrenaline-junkie, conductor-of-light, gorgeous John.</p><p class="p1">Sherlock came face to face with the thief again, only this time the man was prepared. A quick glint of metal and Sherlock felt the bite of steel against skin. With a jab to the nose and knee to the groin, Sherlock incapacitated the thief and manhandled him to the ground, knee to his back and hands secured behind him. John rounded the corner, alert. Gun in hand, John took in the scene with practiced eyes. They lingered on Sherlock's side, gun trained on the man below him. When his gaze didn't move, Sherlock finally looked down and took stock of his transport. <em>Oh. </em>That was deeper than he realized.</p><p class="p1">Blood blossomed across his sliced shirt, seeping down the front. That was when the pain hit him, the adrenaline finally wearing off. A fire spread between his ribs and across his side as he tried to control his breathing. Sherlock closed his eyes, keeping a strong grip on the man below him. He felt a hand on his, taking control.</p><p class="p1">"I've got him. Better call an ambulance, then Lestrade. And put some pressure on that. Hard. Now." John spoke softly and urgently to him.</p><p class="p1">"Quite right.” Sherlock panted out. “Ambulance. Lestrade." Sherlock made it through the first phone call, wrapping his scarf tightly around his ribs and using John's jacket to keep pressure on the wound. By the time he started his call to Lestrade, John had the culprit secured with the zip ties he kept handy in his pocket. So resourceful, his John. Blinking lazily, Sherlock tried to convince his phone to call Lestrade with various taps on the screen, until John took the phone from him and urged him to lie down. John's warm hands added to his, increasing the pressure to the still bleeding cut.</p><p class="p1">"Ok, love. They're on their way. The ambulance and Lestrade. Keep talking to me. Ok?" John spoke quickly and calmly.</p><p class="p1">Breathing heavily and pausing every few words, Sherlock replied, "Of course, I'll...keep talking. I'm me, aren't I? What did you think...a small cut like this would do to me...the Great Sherlock...Watson-Holmes?" He tried for a smile.</p><p class="p1">John smiled back at him fondly, eyes tight and brows crinkled. "Not much, I should dare say. But you're losing quite a bit of blood there and making me more than a bit nervous. Why'd you have to out-pace me like that, you bloody long-legged idiot?"</p><p class="p1">Sherlock attempted to shift to a more comfortable position, wincing as he did. "Because I know how much you like...to watch me run." With a smile more like a grimace, he looked up at John.</p><p class="p1">John stifled a laugh at that. "Oh, don't you know it. Now please, stop bleeding?”</p><p class="p1">Sherlock loved John's laugh. He needed it. It distracted him from the pain. "If I knew how, I would. It's quite tedious...and ruining my clothes."</p><p class="p1">"Oh, you great bloody prick! Don't you dare try making me laugh while you’re literally bleeding in my arms. I won't have it!" There was some anger in John’s tone, but mostly it was fond and teasing. It must be worse than Sherlock thought.</p><p class="p1">The sound of sirens surrounded them. Lestrade came up first, shook his head, and said, "You two are gonna be the bloody end of me. You know that, right?” He gestured to the bound suspect. “Now, I'll take this one down to the yard and take your statements later. If you're up to it after you get stitched up, I'll let you talk to him."</p><p class="p1">Through increasingly difficult breaths, Sherlock said, "Make sure...to grab everything...he took."</p><p class="p1">Lestrade scrunched his brows and looked from Sherlock to John.</p><p class="p1">John took over the explanation. “We need it to find out more about who killed Sal. We caught him going through his stuff.”</p><p class="p1">"Alright,” Lestrade replied. “I'll get it. And I'll hear the rest of that story when I take your statements. Now off you get, you bloody berks."</p><p class="p1">With an incredulous look from John, and much of his support, Sherlock stood, planning to walk himself to the ambulance. But once he was on his feet, the edges of his vision blackened, the center brightened with a flash of white, and then darkness consumed him.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Still on schedule so far! :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">When he opened his eyes again, the world was upside down. Wheels and feet bustled everywhere. And the jostling, why was he jostling? And that crick in his neck was acting up. Oh. He was being carried. Sherlock lifted his head and found John looking straight ahead, fear, concern, anger, and determination all swimming across his features.</p><p class="p1">"John," he coughed out. John's face snapped towards his, searching out his eyes. "I'm alright...I swear. I haven't...eaten today and...my water intake...abysmally low. I wasn't...expecting to need... extra resources."</p><p class="p1">John's face softened and then hardened into a frustrated, disappointed glare. "Oh, you daft wanker. Of course, you haven't. I should've known. It's just as likely you passed out from dehydration as blood loss. Most likely a mixture of both."</p><p class="p1">He looked back up and talked to someone who was approaching, but Sherlock couldn't care less. John was carrying him. He didn't remember the last time this happened, but he loved it when it did. Being in John's strong, warm grasp, it was delightful. Did he really just think that? His brain must be further gone than he first thought. He was placed on the gurney, still looking at his gorgeous, strong, handsome John.</p><p class="p1">"If you keep talking like that, you may be out of the doghouse earlier than you think.” John pointed a finger at him. “But don't think I don't know that you made this incident worse all by your lonesome. First, you don't care for yourself, then you leave me behind and get yourself in a tangle with an armed thief.” He looked away as he kept pace with the gurney. “Though, the fact you were still able to take him down like that, and that quickly, was quite bloody brilliant. But don't think I'm not still angry with you."</p><p class="p1">It was then that Sherlock realized he had been muttering everything he was thinking out loud. Thank God only John had heard.</p><p class="p1">"I wouldn't be so sure about that. Pretty sure Lestrade's got that on his phone now actually." John said with a smirk. "I'm going to have to get him to send that to me.”</p><p class="p1">They were inside the ambulance now. A flurry of activity and noise interrupted their banter, silencing them. John sat off to the side, eyes locked on Sherlock's, his steady presence and gaze helping keep him calm with all the strangers surrounding him, touching him. He knew John did that for him. Their gazes remained locked until they arrived at the A&amp;E.</p><p class="p1">———</p><p class="p1">After being stitched up, hydrated, fed, a night of observation, and a promise from John that he would look after Sherlock, they were finally headed home to 221B. They made their way out of the cab and onto the curb. Still weak from the ordeal, Sherlock leaned against John for support and slung his arm across the broad shoulders. Avoiding the stitches, John wrapped an arm gingerly around his hips, and they made their way to the front door.</p><p class="p1">"We've got to stop coming home like this," John grunted as he took on Sherlock’s weight.</p><p class="p1">Sherlock turned his head into John's, breath playing with the hair it found there. "What's the fun in that?"</p><p class="p1">The door swung open and revealed a tutting Mrs. Hudson. They shuffled through the door and up the stairs as she twittered away. "Oh, boys. How awful! Sherlock. You need to be more careful. Thankfully, John dear is here to take care of you. Now, you best listen to your doctor, young man.” Holding the door for them, she continued, “I'll make a cuppa for you dears while you get settled. Just this once, mind you. I'm not your housekeeper.”</p><p class="p1">"Yes, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you, the tea would be great," John replied for both of them. "We don't have any clean dishes at the moment. Would you be so kind as to lend us some of yours?”</p><p class="p1">"Oh! Of course, dear. Just bring it back down whenever you’re done with it." And with that, she scurried out of their apartment.</p><p class="p1">"She does so like to fuss," Sherlock said as John guided him down onto the couch.</p><p class="p1">"That she does. But Sherlock. She's right, you know. You must be more careful. I don't want this happening again. Especially so close to our anniversary." Hints of both ire and seduction colored his voice.</p><p class="p1">Sherlock stilled. Their anniversary. He had forgotten it was coming up. What day was it again anyway? He couldn't remember. It must be January. They got married on the day they met, and that was January 29th. John looked at him, recognition dawning.</p><p class="p1">"You forgot. Of course, you forgot. Why would you remember such a trivial thing as the day we promised our lives to each other? Our anniversary! God, Sherlock. You really don't care at all, do you? It's fine. I shouldn't have expected otherwise. That's on me." John gestured with curt movements as he spoke. He took a deep breath, stood abruptly, and stomped off. From the kitchen, he continued, "I know you're hurt and that you need me here. Otherwise, there is no way I would be staying here tonight. But, as it stands... We’ll get you set up in the bedroom, and I'll take the couch. If you need me in the middle of the night, just call out. I’ll still hear you from here."</p><p class="p1">By this point, John had made his way back into the sitting room, pointing an accusing finger at Sherlock. "But don't you dare think you are getting away with this, you bastard. You already owed me before. Now you owe me big time. I get that you are distracted with your case, and with the fact that you lost Sal. But you can't do this, Sherlock. You can't treat me like dirt, and you can't treat your body that way either. For God's sake, you could have died today!" With that last sentence, John stopped talking and plopped down in his threadbare chair. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and rubbed his face with his hands. Silent sobs began to shake his body.</p><p class="p1">Sherlock watched as all this happened, never quite knowing how to explain himself, never quite having the chance to get a word in. After a few moments to collect himself, John looked at Sherlock with a tear-stained face, "I could have lost you. Don't you understand? I can't go through that again." He took a deep breath and shook his head, no longer looking at Sherlock, "I'm so mad at you. I'm just so mad."</p><p class="p1">Sherlock's heart clenched. They had talked about this when he first returned. Well, maybe not first, but close to. They had both been through so much the two years he was gone. So many times he almost didn't make it back. But the thought of coming home to John had kept him going, even in the darkest of times. And John, his poor John, thinking he was dead the whole time, had barely managed it. It made sense, the anger. Sherlock deserved it, and he wouldn't let himself get away with it this time. John needed him to be strong so he could have the space he needed to recover. A space like Lestrade's.</p><p class="p1">With a flat tone and a carefully blank face to hide both the physical and emotional pain he was feeling, Sherlock said, "Alright, John. If that’s how you feel, I'll be fine here on my own. I'll even follow all your instructions. But you want to go back to Lestrade's, and I completely agree: you should. I need to think, and that is the best place for you to be while I do so."</p><p class="p1">With that, John shot a glare in his direction. Maybe that wasn't the right thing to say. John stood and pulled something from his pocket. "Right. Well, if that’s how it is. My stuff is already there. Might as well just get going, then. Here," and he tossed the folded page of care instructions onto the coffee table in front of Sherlock. "I'm sure Mrs. Hudson can help you if you need it because, right now, I won't." And with that, John was out the door, slamming it shut behind him.</p><p class="p1">A few too quiet minutes passed as the silence suffocated the air out of the room. Finally, a shuffle on the stairs reverberated through Sherlock's head. Mrs. Hudson with the tea. "Oh, Sherlock. Had a bit of a domestic, did you? It's alright. He'll be back. He always is."</p><p class="p1">And that was what broke him. He sincerely couldn't be sure this time. He had thought this was what John wanted, what was best for John. But apparently, as always, he had mucked it up. It must have sounded insincere and more like Sherlock didn't actually want him here. When that was all Sherlock really did want, but he wasn't going to admit that, and surely not show it to John when he would be better off at Lestrade's. He didn't know how he was going to fix this. Maybe he couldn't. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was the end. Their almost one wonderful year. He could appreciate that, cherish it, be fine with just that and nothing more. It was fine. All fine.</p><p class="p1">Mrs. Hudson was holding his face in her hands, lips moving, saying something. What was she saying?</p><p class="p1">"Sherlock. Sherlock! Oh, there you are, dear. Now don't go running off into that ‘mind place’ of yours just yet. We need to get you sorted first.” She paused, staring into his eyes. “Oh. Oh, dear. Sherlock. Don't cry, dear."</p><p class="p1">He felt her run a thumb over his cheek, and it was wet. Strange.</p><p class="p1">"He'll come back. He will. Just you watch. Tomorrow morning, he'll be back. He loves you too much for it to be any longer than that. Now, you need to rest up. Couch or bed? I'll help you get there. Even with this hip of mine. We'll manage."</p><p class="p1">She came around and supported him by the forearms to help him stand. It was quite a bit more tedious than when John was here to help him. But he would have to get used to that. Without John.</p><p class="p1">Sherlock felt another wet patch on his cheek. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson observed correctly. He was crying.</p><p class="p1">They hobbled their way to the bedroom, and Sherlock maneuvered himself gingerly into place, taking care to protect his side and the stitches holding it together. When he was finally settled, he realized just how exhausted he still was. First Sal, now John. It was too much.</p><p class="p1">Mrs. Hudson patted his curls and once more murmured, "He'll be back, Sherlock. He'll be back," as his eyelids closed of their own accord.</p><p class="p1">———</p><p class="p1">The next morning, the grey light of day brightened the room. Apparently Sherlock had needed more rest than he realized. It was rare he slept so much, except after particularly grueling cases without much sleep in-between. Trying to turn away and hide from the coming day, a hot flash of pain reminded him that wasn’t going to happen. He was up now, for better or worse. Though the fact John wasn’t lying there with him implied it was for the worse. He groaned and checked his phone.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>No new messages</em>
</p><p class="p1">Fuck, this was bad. John really was more than pissed. He was furious. He normally would have said something by this point, even just a reminder to check the dressing. After all, it had been almost 22 hours since he left.</p><p class="p1">There was a knock on the front door. Then a hello from the gruff voice of Lestrade. Ah. So he came to give the bad news in person then.</p><p class="p1">“In here! Knife wound, remember?”</p><p class="p1">Lestrade’s head popped through the doorway, and he took a quick glance around the room.</p><p class="p1">“I’d thought John would be waiting on you hand and foot with a wound like that. Didn’t think he’d give up an opportunity to make you do all the things he normally tries to anyway. How you feeling?”</p><p class="p1">“As best to be expected,” Sherlock said, though he refrained from adding an ‘imbecile’ or ‘idiot’. It wasn’t right for him to be teasing about John leaving like that. Unless Lestrade didn’t realize the gravity of the situation. But John would have said something to him. Wouldn’t he have?</p><p class="p1">“Right, so. Well, I still need your statement and John’s whenever he gets back. I’m assuming he’ll be back soon, yeah? Or am I going to have to track him down at the clinic?”</p><p class="p1">“You know better than I do where he is right now. It’s not like I’m the one he stayed with last night.” At this point, Sherlock was trying to ignore the pain lancing through his heart and his side, keeping it from tipping over into overwhelming him completely.</p><p class="p1">And that’s when he noticed Lestrade’s face. Quiet, stilled, wide-eyed.</p><p class="p1">“He did stay at yours last night, yes? Tell me he stayed with you last night. He left about 10 yesterday morning to go to yours.” Sherlock’s voice rose in both pitch and volume as he spoke.</p><p class="p1">Still wide-eyed and silent, Lestrade pressed his lips together in a tight line and slowly, deliberately shook his head.</p><p class="p1">“Didn’t even get a text from him.”</p><p class="p1">This wasn’t good. Oh no. This. This was horrific. There were systems in place to keep track of each other now. This could only mean one thing. John was taken. Just like before. But Moriarty was dead. His empire destroyed. This was someone new. Someone who was going to pay dearly. Someone who didn't yet know that you never mess with Sherlock Watson-Holmes.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">Well, it was going to be a hell of a day. Everything was going fine until he had to phone Sherlock to look at the probable overdose. But it really all started when Sally saw Greg's phone open on his desk at the end of the day, what was now, a week ago. And the one little text, with the one little winky face, to just one Mycroft Holmes. She had cocked an eyebrow and gave a pointed look but made no other mention of it. Until he called in Sherlock. Of course.</p><p class="p1">He could tell as soon as he finished the call that Sally knew what he had done and didn't like it. She stalked over to him and with one hand on her hip and the other pointing a finger at him, she started.</p><p class="p1">"God, you called him, didn't you? You know we can do this on our own. Look at him. It's obviously an overdose. Anderson can handle this. Just because you're dating his brother doesn't mean you have to cow-tow to him!"</p><p class="p1">"Oi! You watch your tone. And who said anything about dating?" Greg’s commanding voice cut through her ire and loosened her stance.</p><p class="p1">"Well, it's kind of obvious when you leave your phone open like that,” she said. “Come on. You didn't think I'd put two and two together? I'm a detective. You know better than that! Respectfully, sir."</p><p class="p1">Greg crossed his arms. "Well. For once, you're wrong. I'm not dating Mycroft, and I didn't call Sherlock to appease him in some way. I feel like something is off, but I can't place my finger on it. That's why I called him. Now, stay out of my personal life and go man the perimeter," he said with a dismissive wave and turned away knowing Sally would do as she was told.</p><p class="p1">After some more examination and keeping the area clear for Sherlock, Greg heard some bickering coming from the line. Of course, Sally was holding them up. She wanted to get back at him for the dressing down. Probably still holding onto the belief it had something to do with Mycroft.</p><p class="p1">Shaking his head, he had known this was what would happen. And that was exactly why they couldn't date. It was that night after Sally saw the text that Greg had told Mycroft they needed to end...end whatever it was. But now, he needed his consultant.</p><p class="p1">"Because, Sergeant Donovan, I asked for them to come, as you well know. Now. Let. Them. Through."</p><p class="p1">———</p><p class="p1">Well, that didn't go as planned. Fuck. Greg had really hoped it was just an overdose and that he was being paranoid. But no. It had to be a fucking murder. And his whole team had missed it. He knew something was off, and then Sherlock had to come along and prove him right in the worst way. Greg knew Sherlock was going to be screwed up for a bit. Thank God for John Watson.</p><p class="p1">Finishing up at the crime scene, Greg sent some constables to track down the kid, make sure he didn't do anything dumb with his findings, if there were any. It was going to be the start of a long day. He needed to get the body to the morgue for Molly to do the autopsy the next day. Get toxicology running screens. Get everything cleared out. And he still needed to finish up some of that paperwork from the last case he closed.</p><p class="p1">Greg rubbed a hand over his face, then pushed his fingers through his hair. God, he hated days like this. Sally was going to be all over him. Shoulders hung, body heavy, he wanted a holiday. He wanted Mycroft. Fuck. He shook his head to clear it. These were not the thoughts he wanted to be having.</p><p class="p1">"Donovan! Get this cleaned up and cleared out. We’re heading back to the Yard till we know more."</p><p class="p1">"Yes, sir.”</p><p class="p1">———</p><p class="p1">The day passed as usual. Slowly, aggravatingly, lonely. Too much paperwork. He got a couple of texts from John, keeping him updated on Sherlock's progress. But so far, it wasn't much. He was thinking it was more than just a onetime murder, that it was planned because Sal knew something. Well, that at least made some sort of sense. But they were tracking down what he could have possibly known, so still no leads. He loved being able to let them do the legwork.</p><p class="p1">His phone buzzed.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>I hear my brother has taken a case of yours. MH</em>
</p><p class="p1">God, that bastard.</p><p class="p1">
  <b>Of course you did. Yeah. He is checking out an OD/murder. Need something?</b>
</p><p class="p1">Putting his phone face down, Greg hung his head in his hands. Sometimes it was just so hard. Pretending not to care, when he did so much. But he knew it was better. They both did.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Nothing more. Thank you for the information. Take care, Gregory. MH</em>
</p><p class="p1">He felt a vice grip around his heart as he read his name on the screen. He ran a thumb over the words. <em>Take care, Gregory.</em> God, how did Mycroft do this to him? Just three little words and he was over and done for. That fucker. He made this so much more difficult with little things like that. Greg finally tapped out a short reply.</p><p class="p1">
  <b>You too.</b>
</p><p class="p1">He decided to head home for the day. The toxicology and autopsy reports wouldn't be ready for him until sometime tomorrow anyway. And he was trashed. He needed a drink.</p><p class="p1">When Greg got back to his sad little flat he had started renting after the divorce, he collapsed in his armchair with a beer in one hand and the telly remote in the other. It was time to shut out the world for a bit. After a few episodes of nothing exciting, it was dark out, and he was starting on his fourth beer. His phone buzzed.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Incoming. MH</em>
</p><p class="p1">Greg stared at his phone. While he was still trying to figure out what to send back to Mycroft, it buzzed again.</p><p class="p1">
  <b>
    <em>I know it's late. But I'm staying over at yours tonight. You know how he gets. </em>
  </b>
</p><p class="p1">Oh. Of course. Sherlock must have been in a right mood after that experience this morning. Texting back, Greg went to the front door.</p><p class="p1">
  <b>No problem. Door's unlocked. </b>
</p><p class="p1">He grabbed two glasses and a bottle. Poured a finger of scotch into each, and set them down. He went and grabbed extra sheets, a blanket, a pillow and set everything up on the couch. Just then, he heard steps on the stairs. Greg grabbed the glasses and met John at the door as he opened it.</p><p class="p1">"Here. Sit. Talk," he said as he traded one of the glasses for John duffel. John gave a small nod and dropped onto the couch with a sigh, throwing his head back, careful of the drink.</p><p class="p1">"That bad, huh?" Greg asked with a raised brow.</p><p class="p1">John gave a huff, took a swig, and said, "He compared me to Anderson. Fucking Anderson, Greg. You know how he feels about Anderson."</p><p class="p1">"Oh, don't I." Greg tossed the duffel behind the couch and reclaimed his chair. "That beat up over Sal then?"</p><p class="p1">Pinching the bridge of his nose, John slid his eyes closed. "Even more than he realizes, to be honest. But you know how he is with a case. And now he has even more reason to be obsessive, to find Sal's killer, solve the puzzle."</p><p class="p1">Greg took in John's obvious weariness. "What about you? Other than being compared to Anderson, how are you holding up? You knew Sal too, right?”</p><p class="p1">Nodding slowly, John took a few more sips of his drink. "Honestly? I'm exhausted. It was an early morning, a long day, and then that fight. I did know him, yeah. But mostly it was through Sherlock and how he helped him. I'll be ok. Just worried about the idiot genius back at my flat.” John sighed. “He’s trying to pretend the grief isn't getting to him, but it's really slowing him down.” Looking up at Greg, he confessed, “He ate tonight, Greggie. And he didn't make a connection he would normally have made hours earlier until I brought home two more names. He already had three. Three, Greg. It's not good. But then he went and called me fucking Anderson.”</p><p class="p1">Greg could hear the ever so slight waver in his voice as he finished off those last few words. Anger and frustration, but mostly hurt, colored his voice. Greg took a sip from his own glass and swirled the amber liquid as he considered John.</p><p class="p1">"He's a right bastard. But he's our right bastard, isn't he?" </p><p class="p1">"Cheers to that, mate." And John put his empty glass down on the table. "Mind if I crash now?”</p><p class="p1">"Go for it. I'll see you in the morning," Greg said as he stood and grabbed the glasses to place them in the sink.</p><p class="p1">"Ta for that. G’night."</p><p class="p1">Greg turned out the light in the room and went off to get ready for bed himself when his phone buzzed.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Thank you. MH</em>
</p><p class="p1">His heart sped up. God damn it. He needed to get control of himself, stop reacting like this whenever he saw those damn initials. He was like a lovesick schoolgirl, and he was not going to allow that. It was beneath him. And slowly breaking his heart. He never did get to run his fingers through that ginger hair. Damn it. Greg shook his head again. Focus.</p><p class="p1">
  <b>Of course. They're my mates. I didn't do it for you. </b>
</p><p class="p1">He started to type some more, deleted it, re-typed it, deleted it again. Finally, he added: </p><p class="p1">
  <b>But I would have. </b>
</p><p class="p1">His phone stayed silent for a long time as he waited for a response. He shouldn't have sent that. He should <em>not</em> have sent that. Greg started typing out an apology when his phone finally buzzed.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>And I for you, Gregory. Please do know that. Even still. MH</em>
</p><p class="p1">Oh, fuck. Fuckity fuck fucker fuck fuck. The vice gripped hard around his heart again, and he slumped against the wall of his room. He breathed in a few deep breaths and calmed himself. Standing, he turned his phone on "Do Not Disturb", plugged it in, and got ready for bed.</p><p class="p1">———</p><p class="p1">The next morning, Greg woke still feeling raw and achy from the day before. He laid in bed with his eyes closed, reminding himself that he made the right decision, ending it. But that didn’t mean it didn’t still hurt. Bollocks. This was going to take longer to get over than he’d originally hoped. With a deep sigh and heavy resignation, Greg threw off the covers and planted his bare feet on the cold floor, leaning forward, head hanging. One step at a time. With another sigh, he pushed himself up from the warmth of the bed and the safety of dreams and into the stale air of the day before him.</p><p class="p1">He threw on his robe and slippers and shuffled into the kitchen to start the coffee. He glanced toward the couch to see if John was awake yet or not. It was empty, but his bag was still behind the couch. If he was gone, he was planning on coming back tonight. Still angry at the poor, dumb bastard then. Served Sherlock right.</p><p class="p1">Turning toward the coffee machine, Greg saw John’s scrawl on a small paper atop it. Wanker. A small smile spread across his face. Of course, he’d leave it there.</p><p class="p1"><em>Off out. Helping with the case. See you tonight. I’ll text you</em>.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Thanks, Johnny</em>
</p><p class="p1">He chuckled to himself. Oh, sweet Johnny. He planned to text him if he hadn’t heard from him in a few hours. But if he was off with Sherlock, it’d be ok. As long as someone knew where he was. After being taken by Moriarty, everyone wanted to keep a closer eye on him, on each other. It was what brought him and Mycroft closer in the first place.</p><p class="p1">Rubbing his forehead in hopes of wiping those thoughts from his mind, he started the coffee.</p><p class="p1">Greg finished getting ready for the day and headed to the yard. The tox screen results were sitting on his desk. Before sitting down, he opened the file and scanned the contents. Potassium chloride in the needle. Well, that explained it. Sherlock was right. It had been murder. He’d have to check in with Molly later for the autopsy report.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Do let me know if you come across anything particularly strange in the next few weeks. I would be appreciative of the information. It may be pertinent to an investigation I am pursuing. MH</em>
</p><p class="p1">Those damn initials.</p><p class="p1">
  <b>Fine. Will do. </b>
</p><p class="p1">He needed to be able to focus, to work. Even if that meant working with Mycroft. Greg glanced at the time and realized he hadn't heard from John, so he made sure to text him too.</p><p class="p1">
  <b>You still alive and off with Himself? </b>
</p><p class="p1">Immediately, the three little dots appeared.</p><p class="p1">
  <b>
    <em>Yeah, I'm fine. We're off looking at Sal's last known locations. Keep you updated if anything changes. </em>
  </b>
</p><p class="p1">Good. So far everything was going the way it was supposed to today.</p><p class="p1">———</p><p class="p1">A few hours later, he got a call.</p><p class="p1">"Sherlock's wounded. We have a thief. Come quickly. You can track my phone."</p><p class="p1">And then it was over. No hello, no goodbye, just that. Well, shit. There went that good day.</p><p class="p1">Greg arrived at the scene just before the ambulance. He saw the guy tied up with zip ties lying near the entangled bodies of Sherlock and John, Sherlock looking much paler than he normally did. He stalked over to them and said, "You two are gonna be the bloody end of me. You know that, right? Now, I'll take this one down to the yard and take your statements later. If you're up to it after you get stitched up, I'll let you talk to him.”</p><p class="p1">———</p><p class="p1">God, that was some of the funniest, cutest shit he’d seen in a while. Greg was ecstatic to have caught Sherlock passed out in Johnny's arms, mumbling his praises over and over again. He was going to show everybody at the Yard. It was hilarious. Sherlock would never live it down.</p><p class="p1">He went down to the morgue to check on how things were going with Molly. When he got there, her back was turned to the door, just the side of her face showing, focused. He watched for a moment as she took some notes on her clipboard and tucked a loose piece of braid behind her ear. God, she was pretty. Too bad they couldn't make it work. At least they were good at still being friends, unlike some past relationships he'd had.</p><p class="p1">But, sometimes, Greg was struck by how amazing she really was, since she didn't see the fullness of it herself. Yeah, she knew she was smart and cute, and at times sexy, and knew how to play it. But the depth of her intelligence, and awkward sense of humor, and her sweetness just added to all of it. Sherlock had really done a number on her self-esteem, but she was claiming it back for herself now. And Greg was happy to just watch her become who she was meant to be. He knocked and pushed open the door.</p><p class="p1">Boisterous, he calls out, "Hey, Molls. Before we get to business, you've got to see this." She looked up at him with a soft smile and watery eyes and turned towards his phone as he held it out for her, the Sherlock video playing for her to hear. Knowing he stepped in on a sensitive moment, he let her watch the video without comment, hoping that it might help. As she watched, Greg saw the mirth replace the tears and light up her eyes. When she began to giggle, a hand flew up to cover her mouth, and she looked at Greg joining tentatively in with her laughter.</p><p class="p1">"Who'd have ever thought that those were the thoughts sitting in our genius' head?"</p><p class="p1">She shook her head as she continued to laugh. "Not me. I can tell you that much! But look how John cares for him. It's just so sweet.”</p><p class="p1">Looking back at his phone, Greg watched the concern and love dance across John's face as he gazed down at Sherlock. "I know.”</p><p class="p1">"Was that all you came down for?" she asked, tilting her head and turning back to her work, the sadness creeping back onto her face.</p><p class="p1">Greg rubbed the back of his neck. "No, I was actually coming to see if you had any preliminaries from the autopsy. But before we get to that, I have to ask, is everything all right?"</p><p class="p1">"Oh! Well, uhh. No.” Molly shook her head, the hair coming loose again. “I, uhh, I shouldn’t have been the one to do the autopsy.” A sniffle escaped as she rubbed her arm in a self-comforting gesture. “I, I knew Sal. That’s all. I’m taking it a little harder than I expected.” She collected herself, “But, here is the file right here. You can take it with you. I have my own copies to continue on. I was half-expecting you to ask for them."</p><p class="p1">He took the offered files and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. "God, Molls, I’m so sorry. If you need the rest of the day off, you should take it, without question, ok?”</p><p class="p1">She nodded, “Thanks, Greg. But, but, I think I’ll be fine.” Molly gave him a half-hearted smile. “You should get back. I know you have a lot to do.”</p><p class="p1">Giving her arm a squeeze, Greg spoke softly, “I’m so mad that you’re right because I’d much rather stay here to make sure you’re all right. You really are brilliant. Let me know if you need anything. Promise?"</p><p class="p1">“Alright. I will. Thanks for the video, though. It helped.”</p><p class="p1">With one last glance, he gave an apologetic smile and walked out.</p><p class="p1">By the time everything was sorted and cataloged, and the thief interviewed, it was too late to go visit at the hospital or back down to the morgue for Molly. Greg checked through his phone for any updates he had missed throughout the day.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Is he alright? MH </em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>I'll assume you would have let me know if you thought it was serious and wouldn't have returned to the Yard either. MH</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <b>
    <em>He's fine. But we're staying here overnight. I'll have to get my stuff later. </em>
  </b>
</p><p class="p1">
  <b>
    <em>God, he is such a prat. Why do I love him again? </em>
  </b>
</p><p class="p1">
  <b>
    <em>No, really, why? </em>
  </b>
</p><p class="p1">Greg chuckled at that last one and tapped out his response.</p><p class="p1">
  <b>Because he’s a mad prick who you, Johnny dear, can't live without. But also cuz he thinks the sun shines out of your arse. Don't know why though, it's not that special. *Video attached to message</b>
</p><p class="p1">Then he sat and looked at the texts from Mycroft again, seeing the concern pouring out from the letters on the screen.</p><p class="p1">
  <b>Don't worry. He's fine. And you’re right. If it was, I would have called right away and stayed with him till you got there. He's still my friend, and I care about him. </b>
</p><p class="p1">As he was typing out that last message he got a response from John.</p><p class="p1">
  <b>
    <em>God, you're right. He's fucking adorable there. I guess that's worth it. Thanks :)</em>
  </b>
</p><p class="p1">And then Mycroft’s.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Thank you. MH</em>
</p><p class="p1">He had the next day off, and Greg planned to use it to his advantage. Beer and rugby. He needed to turn his brain off for a while after all that had happened. And so he did.</p><p class="p1">———</p><p class="p1">After his day off, spent completely holed up, doing nothing, Greg decided he'd start this day by getting John and Sherlock's statements, first thing. He booked his way over and got to Baker Street promptly at 8 in the morning, a perfect way to start the workday: among friends. Well, one friend, and his prick of a husband, who could or could not also be categorized as a friend. He knocked on the door, and Mrs. Hudson let him in with hellos. Greg bounded up the stairs, rapped on the door, and called out.</p><p class="p1">He heard Sherlock's voice from the bedroom, "In here. Knife wound, remember?"</p><p class="p1">And that was the start of his world turning upside-down.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Finally getting to see some of the other POVs! :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">Anthea walked into his office. She was careful to make sure her steps were quiet and precise. Her meticulous nature was a large reason why Mycroft had hired her. She waited patiently for him to acknowledge her. Thank God for good employees. He looked up at her then.</p><p class="p1">“Sir, it appears Sherlock has taken on a case with D.I. Lestrade. We will monitor it closely.”</p><p class="p1">“Thank you, Anthea. Anything else?” Mycroft kept control of his voice, even though he wanted to keen at the mention of Gregory’s name.</p><p class="p1">“A file just came in for you, sir. I think you should see it.”</p><p class="p1">“Hand it over, then. Thank you. You may go.” Mycroft leaned back in his chair, picked up his phone and sent a text to Gregory about the case Sherlock was looking into. Then, he began to browse through the file in his hands. International crime syndicate. Black market. Organ trade. Nothing too extreme, but definitely warranted looking into. He’d keep an eye out and an ear open for more information. In the meantime, he needed to deal with the issues bubbling up in the Americas. It proved to be quite an interesting situation.</p><p class="p1">———</p><p class="p1">That night, as he was finally on his way out to go home for the night, pulling on his overcoat and grabbing his umbrella, Anthea came in again, this time without the respectful wait. Something had happened.</p><p class="p1">“Sir, there has been a development. Apparently the case Sherlock was working on for D.I. Lestrade was the murder of someone he knew, someone named Sal. And now John Waston-Holmes has stormed out of the flat with a bag.”</p><p class="p1">Before he could get more information on Sal, Mycroft pulled out his phone and let Gregory know to expect John. Then, he poured over the information about who this Sal was.</p><p class="p1">It turned out he was a smart man, though not a very well-to-do one, known for helping those on the streets, particularly drug users. Though he wasn’t one himself, he wanted to make sure they were well taken care of, including Sherlock. Apparently, Sal had saved Sherlock’s life in one of his overdoses by staying with him and calling an ambulance. It would be hard to assume that he hadn’t helped Sherlock in other ways. Perhaps, even gave guidance to help him get clean. This would most definitely take a toll on his younger brother’s state.</p><p class="p1">Mycroft often reminded Sherlock that caring was not an advantage, but that did not seem to lessen the amount at which he cared, just to whom it was applied. Few made that ranking. But if they did, it was more than Mycroft had seen anyone else care for others. It was quite the sight to behold. And it seemed Sherlock had just lost one such person. Mycroft definitely needed to keep an eye on this. But, for now, it was time to go home and rest.</p><p class="p1">He loved his flat, in all its spacious, austere decor, and what could only be described by him as a lived-in feel. And with the security here, Mycroft felt like this was one of the only places he could really be free, be himself. He sauntered over to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of wine, loosened his tie, and rolled up his sleeves.</p><p class="p1">As he took his first sip, he thanked Gregory for his help with John, knowing that he always did provide a good place for him to process and simmer down. Gregory was a good man. A great one. A caring one. And, by God, how much he wanted him. But he understood his reasons for ending things, and Mycroft would do his best to respect those boundaries. Although, that didn’t mean he was not going to try to convince him otherwise, however subtly it may be. But enough of that for tonight. He needed to let his mind shut down for a while, so a glass of wine and Milton’s <em>Paradise Lost</em> should do the trick.</p><p class="p1">He settled into his chair by the fireplace in his study, and let himself be lost in the words, in the wine, in the solitude. When he felt like the world was quiet in his mind again, he allowed himself to change rooms, and go to bed. And he slept for the first full night in several days. He needed this, deserved this. A respite.</p><p class="p1">———</p><p class="p1">The next morning started like most others, but for once Mycroft felt rested. He had taken advantage of the chance to sleep later into the morning and was grateful for it. It gave him a determination and a hope that he didn’t normally start his day with. It was pleasant. That was until he received the text from Anthea.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Update, sir. Please check the email for further details.</em>
</p><p class="p1">Opening his email on his phone, Mycroft found more information on the black-market organ trade. Enough to elevate the situation’s immediate threat. Well, that put a damper on his good day. He asked Gregory to keep him updated on anything out of the ordinary, hoping that there might be something to help guide him on this investigation, and began the rest of his day. It was already showing itself to be a busy one.</p><p class="p1">After handling more of the situation developing in the Americas, quelling a rebellion in some territory, supporting an uprising there, providing some funding here, it was already late in the afternoon. There had been no further updates on the organ trade business. He had been hoping to hear from Gregory. Mycroft missed talking with him regularly. God, Sherlock’s sentiment was catching. It was then that Anthea strode into the room, once again without the respectful patience. This was becoming a regular occurrence now, and he did not appreciate it.</p><p class="p1">“Sir. Sherlock received a knife wound during the Sal investigation. He’s being transported to the hospital now. John Watson-Holmes is with him, and Detective Inspector Lestrade was at the scene but did not leave with them. Do you want me to cancel your plans for the rest of the day, sir?”</p><p class="p1">“That should not be necessary unless John or Gregory call. Thank you. You are dismissed.” Mycroft waved her out of the room and rested his head in his hands, rubbing his fingertips in circles around his temples. He had so much work to do, and now this. Couldn’t Sherlock ever just think before running head-long into dangerous situations? Picking up his phone, Mycroft sent a quick couple of texts to Gregory, knowing that John would be too busy to respond accordingly. Hopefully, Gregory had some time to spare to share the news with him. If not, he couldn’t worry about it at the moment anyway. There was a trade ring to find.</p><p class="p1">A few hours later, he finally got a response.</p><p class="p1">
  <b>
    <em>Don't worry. He's fine. And you’re right. If it was, I would have called right away and stayed with him till you got there. He's still my friend, and I care about him. </em>
  </b>
</p><p class="p1">Gregory had seen the worry in the few texts Mycroft had sent and did his best to quell that fear. Mycroft sighed. He missed this. Missed the ease between them. Missed the kindness. Missed <em>him</em>. But he couldn’t say any of that to Gregory. Instead, he just responded with a simple thank you and went back to work. It was going to be a while before he could have another proper sleep, not with the way the world seemed to be sending him issues to deal with right and left, and the investigation of the organ traders as it was. Just long night after long night.</p><p class="p1">Mycroft called in Anthea and asked her to order some food for the both of them, along with a pot of coffee. They were going to need something to help them keep awake, with only a few catnaps here and there to help keep their minds fresh. But they would not allow their country, their city, to be used as a part of this trade route if they could help it.</p><p class="p1">Hour after hour, cup after cup, file after file, and they were still no closer to determining what they needed to know about this group. It was going to take a lot more digging, and perhaps, God forbid, some legwork. He would normally have his people take care of that, but when something this urgent was at play, it was Sherlock he would reach out to. But with Sherlock laid up in hospital, the prat, Mycroft just might have to stoop to do it himself. He sincerely hoped it would not have to come to that. And so, for the time being, more files, more coffee, and perhaps another order of food it was.</p><p class="p1">Audio recordings, video records, internet searches and conversations, bank records. They went through everything with a fine-toothed comb. And went through it all a second time. An intricate web was beginning to blossom before Mycroft’s eyes. This really was a multinational syndicate, and it was creating waves. But he couldn’t pinpoint what was going on in his own city. <em>His</em> city. His territory. His to protect. And he felt helpless. It was getting closer to the second morning of this, now. Perhaps a small nap was in order. Mycroft traded places with Anthea, just as she finished her reprieve.</p><p class="p1">“Wake me in twenty minutes. That’s all I need. All I can afford right now.” And he was pulled under into a heavy sleep.</p><p class="p1">There was a light touch on his arm. “Sir. It’s been twenty minutes. Time to wake up.” The soothing voice brought him up gently. His phone rang, jolting him fully awake. Damn it, he should have put it on silent.</p><p class="p1">Mycroft picked it up and saw “Gregory Lestrade” dancing across the screen. His heart stuttered, and he answered it, not quite sure if he should be elated or anxious. There were only two reasons Gregory would call instead of text. And he was very much hoping it was one and not the other.</p><p class="p1">“Good morning, Gregory. What is the purpose of this call?” Mycroft rested his head against the fingertips of his empty hand. He heard Gregory’s heavy breathing and the waver in his voice. This was not the call he hoped for, then.</p><p class="p1">“John’s gone, My. Johnny’s gone. Apparently, he left the house at 10 AM yesterday after a fight with Sherlock to come to mine. But he never said anything to me, and neither did you, and he never showed. My, do you know anything, anything at all?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I realized I didn't mention this earlier, but you've probably picked up on it at the point! ~~~ is a POV change and ——— is a scene change in the same POV. Sorry if that wasn't clear before! My bad :P</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">Seeing the roiling fury in Sherlock’s eyes after informing him of John’s disappearance had set his teeth on edge. Greg turned on his heel and left Sherlock lying in bed. He trotted down the stairs, pulling out his phone as he went. Mycroft. He needed to call Mycroft.</p><p class="p1">As soon as he was outside, the phone was ringing. Mycroft picked up with a terse “good morning”. Greg heard the strain and exhaustion in his voice, and he brought Mycroft up to speed, asking if he knew anything.</p><p class="p1">“Not yet, Gregory. But I am having Anthea look into the CCTV surveillance right now. Is there anything else you can tell me?”</p><p class="p1">“No. They’ve been working on that case about Sal, but that’s it.” Greg only heard Mycroft’s increased breathing over the phone for a few moments. “My?”</p><p class="p1">“Nothing, Gregory. I need to look into another matter. I’ll inform you if I come across anything.”</p><p class="p1">Greg took a deep breath and let it out slowly, calming his racing heart and head. “Alright. Alright. Okay, thanks.Please, do.” He started pacing the sidewalk in front of the entrance to 221. “Sherlock’s fuming. Understandably. Having this happen again, after all the loss of privacy they gave up to make sure it wouldn’t. God, I’d be pissed, too.”</p><p class="p1">With a sigh, Mycroft interrupted, “Gregory. I need to track down this information. I will call you back when I know more.”</p><p class="p1">“Okay,” Taking another deep breath, Greg ran his fingers through his hair, hands shaking. “Okay, I’ll talk with you later, then,” and he hung up the phone.</p><p class="p1">He shoved the device back into his pocket and ran back up the steps, taking them two at a time. Finding his way back into the flat, Greg walked toward Sherlock’s room, pausing when heheard a solid thud inside. He slowed his steps, wary of what he might find behind the closed door. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t be good. He gently guided the door into a more open position and took in the scene before him.</p><p class="p1">Sherlock had thrown the covers and the sheets into disarray, tossed clothing around the room. Small droplets of blood stained the floor and the sheets, leading a trail to the huddled mass on the floor. Hearing soft gasping breaths, Greg saw the curled form shaking in time with them and barely recognized the furious detective from minutes ago.</p><p class="p1">This was a broken man.</p><p class="p1">Greg made his way over as if approaching a wounded and scared tiger and knelt beside him. He rested a rough hand on the bare shoulder, offering what comfort he could, even in a time when he knew it wouldn’t be noticed. Rubbing up and down the arm in a brisk, firm manner, Greg called Sherlock’s name, trying to weasel his way into the tumultuous thoughts sure to be brewing within.</p><p class="p1">Sherlock unfurled a fraction, still clutching onto his sides. He turned his face to Greg’s, searching his eyes for some hope. A flash of pain ran across Sherlock’s features, and Greg watched as he withdrew his hand from his side and found it covered in bright red blood.</p><p class="p1">“I think I pulled my stitches,” came Sherlock’s deep, flat voice. His affect was devoid of any perceptible emotion.</p><p class="p1">Greg helped him to his feet, keeping a supportive hold around him. “We’ll get him back, Sherlock. We will. But right now, let’s get you cleaned up and back into bed.” He headed toward the bathroom.</p><p class="p1">“No. I’m not getting back into that bed. Cleaned, yes. But then, work, not bed.” Sherlock’s head fell against Greg’s shoulder. “John’s already been gone too long.” He was obviously exhausted from the day’s exertions. But Greg understood. He nodded solemnly and got to work.</p><p class="p1">~~~</p><p class="p1">
  <b>Update? MH</b>
</p><p class="p1">He hadn’t heard from Gregory in several hours. The last had been to inform him of Sherlock’s attempt to throw himself into finding John before promptly collapsing. He was in recovery for a knife wound, after all. Mycroft only hoped Sherlock had not impaired his healing progress too much. With how Sherlock pushed himself, it was a likely possibility. And his husband being kidnapped increased that risk. But there was something resembling awe in Mycroft at his brother’s ability to ignore his physical needs when his intellect was needed, especially for the case of those who entered into his circle of care. Sherlock was a force of nature and not to be trifled with, if one would be so inclined to use such turns of phrase.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>He’s cleaned up. Got him back to the doctor to get him re-stitched. He had actually torn several, so it was a must. Fought me the whole time, even though he could barely stand. He’s exhausted and lost without John. It’s been pretty emotional, but he’s pretending. First Sal, now John. Not sure how he’s doing it, honestly. </em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Anything on your end?</em>
</p><p class="p1">How was Mycroft supposed to answer that? All they had found from John’s disappearance was that he had seemingly headed in the direction of Gregory’s apartment. Somewhere along the way, one of the CCTV cameras had been tampered with, creating a blind spot. Mycroft hadn’t noticed it originally, but it was obvious now.</p><p class="p1">John was most definitely taken, and taken by those who knew the security measures in place.</p><p class="p1">Sherlock would never forgive him.</p><p class="p1">Mycroft wasn’t sure he would be able to forgive himself.</p><p class="p1">
  <b>Are you alone? MH</b>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>For now, yeah.</em>
</p><p class="p1">As soon as Mycroft saw those words on the screen, he called Gregory. It would be quicker to tell him rather than type. Or, so Mycroft told his traitorous mind. But really, he knew he chose to call because he desired the comfort of hearing Gregory’s voice. It was an anchor in the storm, a full breath of air while drowning, a cool rag on feverish skin.</p><p class="p1">“Hey, My.” A small sigh whispered through the receiver. “I’m assuming this means you have something?”</p><p class="p1">Already, Mycroft was feeling more centered. “Not much, I’m afraid. I’ve discovered a blind spot in my system, so I have an idea of when and where John was taken, but not by whom.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, keeping the tears and self-hatred mostly at bay. “I should have kept better checks on my systems. I should have known daily would not be enough.”</p><p class="p1">“My. My, stop it.” Greg’s tone was pleading. “You did the best you could, and it would have been right. You are not at fault for John being taken. The kidnappers are, for God’s sake. It’s <em>their </em>fault. Only theirs.” Gregory’s voice had been rising as he spoke before dropping into a harsh, urgent whisper. “Yes, precautions can be taken, but it is <em>not </em>anyone’s fault but theirs. Do you hear me?”</p><p class="p1">Mycroft was silent for a few moments, letting Gregory’s voice, his words, seep under his skin and wrap around his heart, protecting it. In a quiet voice, he finally responded, “Yes. I hear you”.</p><p class="p1">Mycroft listened to Greg’s quiet breathing and the soft thuds of pacing echoing through the phone. “You’re still blaming yourself, aren’t you, My?”</p><p class="p1">A small huff of air escaped through Mycroft’s nose. “Of course, I am. But your words did help quell some of the guilt.” Grasping his fingers more tightly around his phone, he closed his eyes. “Thank you, Gregory.” Those were not the words he wanted to say, but those would have to do.</p><p class="p1">“Anytime, love.” Mycroft heard both of their gasps at Gregory’s use of the endearment. “Shit, sorry. I didn’t…I mean…I did…Fuck. But I didn’t…I don’t…”</p><p class="p1">“Gregory. Stop. It’s fine,” Mycroft soothed. “I know. I understand. This is a trying time, and it is easy to fall back into old ways, especially since it was not due to lack of feeling, but done out of duty and respect. I do not expect that one word to change the decisions we made.” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, even as the pain became droplets in the corners of his eyes. “But, I won’t say it wasn’t nice to hear.”</p><p class="p1">“Ok. Ok.” Gregory’s voice was raspy. “I just don’t want to cause you any more pain than I already have.”</p><p class="p1">Mycroft’s eyes slid closed at those words. “I know, Gregory.” He took a moment to gather himself. “Now, tell me about this case Sherlock’s been working on.”</p><p class="p1">~~~</p><p class="p1">A dull ache throbbed through his side, intermixed with flashes of hot pain. It was definitely agitated after the way he had treated it this morning. But Sherlock had thought that he could ignore the pain, focus on finding John, on getting him back. He didn’t realize how much this would actually cause more delay. They spent most of the morning stopping the bleeding and waiting in the A&amp;E to have the stitches redone.</p><p class="p1">The whole time, Sherlock attempted to enter his mind palace, to replay the last four days. There had to be a connection between the case and John’s disappearance. His attempts, however, were fruitless. Too much noise, too much pain, too much “no John”, and too many strangers to focus properly. Lestrade had been a sturdy presence throughout. He knew Sherlock needed that, and Sherlock was thankful.</p><p class="p1">But now, Lestrade had stepped out, apparently to check-in at the Yard. That was fine with Sherlock. He needed the space to shut out the world, his body, his own emotions. And he did.</p><p class="p1">The previous four days played in his mind. The call from Lestrade, the damp vision in a towel known as his husband—God, that made his heart ache. Ignore—the arrival at the crime scene, Sergeant Donovan. Sergeant Donovan. She acted out of the ordinary that day. Sherlock had made a reminder to determine if it was relevant to the case. Now was the time.</p><p class="p1">Anger at Lestrade for calling them to the scene, defiance to her commanding officer, derision of Sherlock’s abilities and career choice, Lestrade reacting to her tension. Lestrade knew what it was about, then. Something to do with Sherlock. Had to be more than that, because this was their normal working relationship. Something must have happened. Something distant enough for it to be a surprise tension, but recent enough to cause tension nonetheless.</p><p class="p1">But what did that have to do with Sherlock? Oh. Not just Sherlock, but the fact Lestrade called him. Called him when Sally didn’t think he was needed. Assumed it was a pity call, the cause of the derision. If Sally assumed Lestrade had called Sherlock to the scene out of pity, she must have reason to assume Lestrade would pity him.</p><p class="p1">She had found something, or rather, saw something. An interaction, perhaps? But an interaction between whom? Someone connected to Sherlock and Lestrade. John? Ridiculous. Mrs. Hudson? Unlikely.</p><p class="p1">Mycroft.</p><p class="p1">Sally Donovan had seen an interaction between Lestrade and Mycroft, one which led her to assume Lestrade now owed Sherlock pity cases. So, one of an intimate nature.</p><p class="p1">Oh, of course. Lestrade and Mycroft were dating. Still? No, it never got off the ground. Just flirting with the idea, otherwise, Sherlock would have caught on before, and Lestrade would be having trouble at work. But Sally assumed more, which is why she was the only trouble he was having.</p><p class="p1">God, how tedious. Sherlock wondered how much time he had wasted determining the nature of his brother’s relationship. Opening his eyes, he pulled his phone from his pocket. Shit, it was later than he realized. 27 hours since John had left the flat. Time wasn’t worth keeping track of, except in connection to when he had last seen John. His John. His wonderful, brilliant, dependable, mistaken John.</p><p class="p1">Sherlock couldn’t breathe. The pressure in his chest threatened to collapse it inward. He moved his hand to his breastbone in an effort to help his lungs suck in more air and felt himself shaking. The tightness across his ribs and gasping, shallow breaths sent lancing arrows of pain from the wound through his body. His fingertips began to feel numb.</p><p class="p1">Oh God, he was panicking. He couldn’t panic. John needed him. John had taught him something. Something to do. Something to help with rushing flood coursing through his body. Right. He should recite something.</p><p class="p1">“Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more…”</p><p class="p1">———</p><p class="p1">Mrs. Hudson tapped on the door and called out. “Sherlock? I heard you reciting again. Everything all right?”</p><p class="p1">Sherlock lay on the couch, fingers steepled under his chin. “No, Mrs. Hudson. But nothing you can do.” With throbbing from his side, he sat up as quickly as he could manage, explaining in a flat, curt tone, “However, I do regret to inform you, John has been kidnapped. Again.”</p><p class="p1">Mrs. Hudson’s hand flew to cover her mouth as she wrapped the other around her middle. “Oh, dear! Oh no. Sherlock.” Flying over to him, she sat on the couch next to him. “You’ll find him, dear. You always do.” She patted the hands folded in his lap. “You’ll find him and bring him home, and the two of you will figure out your little domestic. It will be fine. I just know it.” She gave him a small smile.</p><p class="p1">Thank Christ for Martha Hudson. She knew that Sherlock didn’t need to be coddled, but he did need her confidence.</p><p class="p1">“Now, with that side of yours, and John not here to make sure you are cared for, I’ll be taking on that job myself.” Mrs. Hudson stood and strode toward the kitchen. “A spot of tea, a sandwich, and some water will do just fine. Now, you know I normally wouldn’t do this—I’m not your housekeeper—but John would skin me alive if I didn’t make sure his husband was in good enough shape to help find him.” With a wink from around the corner, she bustled about the kitchen, getting together everything she needed.</p><p class="p1">Sherlock glanced again at the clock. 28 hours, now. He needed to pull himself together if he wanted to find John. This panicking would just continue to delay him. First, this morning, forcing the A&amp;E trip. And now, the recitation of the second half of <em>Henry V</em>.</p><p class="p1">Bringing back the collection, Mr. Hudson set it on the table in front of him. “Now’s not the time to blame yourself, dear. It’s a waste of time. You can deal with all that later, especially since none of it is true.” She leaned over and patted his cheek. “Eat your food and then go find him.” And, with that, she left him.</p><p class="p1">She was right, about all of it. John needed his detective, not his husband. Though it was impossible to separate them completely, Sherlock needed to think impartially, let his rage guide him forward. First, food. As Mrs. Hudson pointed out, he needed strength, and this injury was sapping much of it. But perhaps, Sherlock could allow himself to think and eat at the same time.</p><p class="p1">And possibly, find a starting point.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">Gregory had walked him through everything he knew about the case Sherlock was working on. Which wasn’t all that much. Sherlock had been holding out on him. The only new information Gregory had was that Sal had been purposefully killed, and Sherlock had been looking into his known locations when the incident with the attacker occurred. Greg had been on his way to take Sherlock and John’s statements when they discovered John was gone.</p>
<p class="p3">This was most unhelpful. Mycroft was going to have to call Sherlock. Or, God forbid, visit him. Sherlock would be acerbic, though he had a right, this time. He was hoping to avoid that by talking with Gregory.</p>
<p class="p3">Hoping for a response, he tried calling Sherlock first.</p>
<p class="p3">“You have reached the number of Sherlock Holmes. I’m not available right now. Leave your name, concern, and a way to reach you. If I deem the situation worth my time, I will call you back. Do not call me. And if this is Mycroft, piss off. Call John. Beep.”</p>
<p class="p3">Mycroft rolled his eyes. Of course. The imbecile. He hung up and tried again, receiving the same result. Steeling himself, Mycroft decided he would try once more before going over to the flat after his next meeting. The world still turned. This time, when he called, it did not go straight to voicemail. As it rang, he hoped this would prevent him from having to go over later. But no, the same familiar message rang in his ear.</p>
<p class="p3">Sending a text, Mycroft resolved to head to Baker Street as soon as possible.</p>
<p class="p3">
  <b>Damn it, Sherlock. MH</b>
</p>
<p class="p3">The start of a small coup later, Mycroft found himself in the back of his sleek black car on his way to find out more information. Watching the world rush by, Mycroft felt a small, familiar ache blossom in his chest. It was times like these, when his brain was subdued, that he most desired Gregory’s sturdy presence, his calming voice.</p>
<p class="p3">He pulled out his phone and opened up his read messages. He found the one he was looking for:</p>
<p class="p3">
  <em>But I would have.</em>
</p>
<p class="p3">No one had ever said they would do something for him. Not like this. Not out of…well, others would do it out of duty or threat. But not Gregory. Gregory did it <em>for him</em>. That was just the kind of man he was. Mycroft ran his thumb over those four words and let them soothe him like a perfect cup of tea on a cold day.</p>
<p class="p3">Before he was ready, the car stopped in front of 221B. Into the fire.</p>
<p class="p3">Mycroft found Sherlock lying on his back, favoring his injured side, on the couch in this ‘thinking pose’. Absurd.</p>
<p class="p3">“Do you have news, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked.</p>
<p class="p3">Mycroft raised an eyebrow and tapped his umbrella on the floor. “I do believe, brother mine, one is supposed to greet one’s guest with a ‘Hello, how are you?’ But that would be asking too much of you, now wouldn’t it?</p>
<p class="p3">Without moving or opening his eyes, Sherlock took on a mocking tone. “I do believe, brother mine, when one’s guest is unwelcome and keeping information on one’s kidnapped husband, pleasantries are unnecessary.” He dropped the tone and commanded, “Now, get to the point.”</p>
<p class="p3">“Well, I don’t know if you heard my intel from Detective Inspector Lestrade, but I do know a general area and time at which he was taken. One of the CCTV cameras had been tampered with.” Mycroft let out a deep sigh and crossed to the window. “I actually came here to find out more about the case you both were working before his disappearance.” He turned to face Sherlock. “I assume you made the connection that John’s kidnapping is probably related, yes? What I can’t figure out is how.” With a smirk, he added, “And we both know <em>I’m</em> the smart one. Obviously, I am missing key data necessary to complete this little puzzle.” Brows furrowing slightly, his smile dropped into a frown. He walked closer to where Sherlock lay. “So, Sherlock, do share.”</p>
<p class="p3">With a put upon sigh, Sherlock opened his eyes, gazing up at Mycroft. “Alright, fine.” He gripped the back of the couch and eased himself to a sitting position, taking great care of his wounded side. “You might as well sit.”</p>
<p class="p3">Mycroft turned around, unbuttoned his jacket, sat in the leather chair, and leaned his umbrella against the arm. With a pointed look, he said, “Well, I’m sitting, now.”</p>
<p class="p3">Sherlock cast him a half-hearted glare, “I can see that.” Looking toward the window, he continued, “I have all the pieces, and I still can’t put it all together.” He looked back at Mycroft and tilted his head, eyes narrowed. “Oh, perhaps I don’t. Maybe you do have something you are hiding from me. You just don’t realize it, yet. I guess we will have to start from the beginning to figure out just what that might be.” And he started the tale.</p>
<p class="p3">~~~</p>
<p class="p3">Sherlock had been running through the last four days, off and on, for most of the day now. But he began again with Lestrade calling him to look at Sal’s body. He skimmed over his interaction with Donovan, wanting to keep his discovery about Mycroft’s relationship to himself, for now. He told of the deduction in the morgue and the interviews with his network. When he finished describing his realization about the pattern of missing persons, the timeline, and their drug history, Mycroft put up a hand to stop him. This was where the missing information fit in, then.</p>
<p class="p3">“What?” Sherlock asked. “What do you know?”</p>
<p class="p3">Mycroft shook his head, “I think this relates to another matter that was recently brought to my attention.” He looked up at Sherlock. “There has been a black-market organ trade, operating internationally. We just found circumstantial evidence that they have made their way to London, but nothing concrete to work with. Anthea and I had been working nonstop on this investigation for a few days before I was informed of John’s kidnapping. I should have made the connection sooner.”</p>
<p class="p3">In a fit of compassion, Sherlock said, “As you said before, you were without all the facts. But you believe my missing persons are connected to this organ trade?” He tapped his bottom lip with a knuckle. “That would explain a lot, and why they would take John. They didn’t want me investigating more, or if I did, they had a way to make sure I wouldn’t talk. Just like they did with Sal.” Sherlock’s face fell at the thought of his lost friend before pulling back on the flat mask he was portraying for Mycroft and walking him through the rest of the deductions surrounding the case.</p>
<p class="p3">Now that they both had all the information, they began to piece together the larger picture.</p>
<p class="p3">Mycroft agreed the organ-trafficking group must be working outside of London and would need a space large enough and safe enough to perform medical procedures to remove the organs and dispose of the bodies. Sherlock determined they were using some sort of sedative injections that were most reactive through a vein, probably a benzodiazepine, hence targeting drug addicts as victims. They must have a large enough transport to take the victim to their undisclosed location.</p>
<p class="p3">After their initial rounds of deduction, Mycroft called in Anthea to bring all the files and notes they had already gone through, as well as the CCTV of John from yesterday morning. 29 hours, now. Sherlock was antsy from waiting, especially since they now had direction.</p>
<p class="p3">Anthea brought over several boxes for them to peruse. Again for Mycroft, but with new eyes, and, with the added help of Sherlock, there was hope now that they may be able to put names to the aliases, locations to the bases, and bank account numbers to the money. They dove in.</p>
<p class="p3">~~~</p>
<p class="p3">Greg had been working the case from another direction. Since he had the ability to do the legwork Mycroft wouldn’t do and Sherlock couldn’t, he went back to the last hideout where Sherlock and John encountered the thief.</p>
<p class="p3">Collecting the odds and ends he found there, Greg brought them back to the Yard to be processed. When he had a chance to sit down and sift through everything, he came upon a small tattered notebook and read through it.</p>
<p class="p3">It was Sal’s journal. His day-to-day interactions with the rest of his community. His thoughts, his needs, but mostly, his hopes for what humanity could one day be. About halfway through, a name was circled in ink of a different color. And then another. And another.</p>
<p class="p3">Greg recognized a pattern when he saw one. Pulling out scrap paper, he wrote down the names and dates as he came across them. There were 12 names. Exactly one every two months over the last two years.</p>
<p class="p3">When Greg reached the pages of the past month, another color appeared, circling the names. They were obviously aliases. Maybe this was the information that got Sal killed. Greg wrote those down, too. With this last set, he also noted as much detail as Sal had gleaned. Looking at the time, he realized he needed to check-in on Sherlock. Gathering his lists and the notebook, he headed to Baker Street.</p>
<p class="p3">When Greg entered the flat, he was welcomed with a hurricane of information and noise as Anthea, Sherlock, and Mycroft passed paper and words back and forth between the three of them, enveloped in their world of knowledge. The frustration was thick in the air, and Greg knew they hadn’t gotten much further than before, but there was invigorated energy crackling through it as well.</p>
<p class="p3">“Hey.” They all ignored him, not yet realizing he was there. “Hey,” he said a little louder. Finally, he belted “HEY!” and the three looked in his direction, mild shock at his intrusion etched on their faces. “I see you all have done quite a bit of work. But I’m hoping what I found at Sal’s could be of some use to you.” Avoiding the paperwork minefield covering the floor, Greg walked over to Sherlock on the couch. “You knew him best, so maybe you will have more ideas on what was going on.” He handed over his notes and the journal.</p>
<p class="p3">Sherlock took the offerings and quickly scanned through them. “There are two more missing persons here than I had previously. They must not have been part of my network. But it does change the pattern of the organ traders.” Greg gave a start of shock. “Oh, yes. Mycroft and I shared our information and realized this case and his investigation into the international black-market organ trade were one and the same.” With a wave of his hand, Sherlock continued, “As I was saying, their pattern is exactly every two months instead of about every two months.” He flipped through a few more pages. “And, oh, we have some aliases, Mycroft.” He passed the list and book over to his brother.</p>
<p class="p3">“Ah. Yes. These descriptions match some of the other aliases we have come across. This might help us pinpoint some of their accounts.” Mycroft looked up at Greg, tired eyes full of gratitude.“Thank you. This has been most helpful.”</p>
<p class="p3">Greg rubbed the back of his neck and glanced around the disarray of the room. “Right. Well, it seems you have some forward motion now. I’ll just head back to the yard.” As he turned towards the door, he cast a glance at Mycroft over his shoulder. “Let me know if you find anything. Or if I can be of any use.”</p>
<p class="p3">Sherlock gave a brisk nod; Anthea, a brief “thank you”. But Mycroft looked up from his spot on the floor, surrounded by paperwork and laptops, “You’ve already done so much. This was the key we were missing.” He gave him a small smile. “Thank you, Gregory.”</p>
<p class="p3">Greg’s heart fluttered in his chest at the look Mycroft cast his way. He could only nod in response before heading back out the door.</p>
<p class="p3">Over the next few hours, Greg was kept informed of their findings. Sherlock and Mycroft had tracked down one Mr. Sirius Smith. He seemed to be the leader of the band. Together, they were able to connect him to a single account with a substantial amount of money and froze it. But they had not found out much more.</p>
<p class="p3">Almost two hours after the account was frozen, Greg received an email from an unknown sender with a subject line reading: <em>For one Mr. Sherlock Holmes.</em></p>
<p class="p3">Before opening it, he called Sherlock, asking him to come to the Yard right away. He was sure Sherlock could hear the urgency bleeding through his voice. As soon as he hung up, he called in IT to make sure the email and any attachments were clean. By the time they finished, Sherlock was sitting in the briefing room, waiting, flat-faced. The only thing that gave him away were the fingers of his right hand, rapidly tapping a shallow rhythm against his rigid thigh.</p>
<p class="p3">“Ok. IT has given us permission to open the file.” Greg glanced over at Sherlock, “You ready?”</p>
<p class="p3">Sherlock stilled his hand. “Ready as I’ll ever be. Go ahead, Lestrade.”</p>
<p class="p3">Greg opened the email.</p>
<p class="p3">
  <em>Dear Mr. Holmes,</em>
</p>
<p class="p3">
  <em>I believe we may have something of significance to you. Do, please, refrain from meddling with our affairs. </em>
</p>
<p class="p3">
  <em>*Video Attached*</em>
</p>
<p class="p3">
  <em>Sincerely,</em>
</p>
<p class="p3">
  <em>Mr. Sirius Smith </em>
</p>
<p class="p3">Greg played the video.</p>
<p class="p3">The picture was dark, except for a light illuminating a trough of water and flashes of white tile. Several figures covered head to toe in black garments dragged a limp body into view, golden-gray streaked hair unmistakably John’s. His arms were handcuffed behind his back, and his knees slid across the floor as they held him by the biceps. They lifted his head so he faced the camera. His eyes were dazed and clearly confused. Probably drugged.</p>
<p class="p3">And then they shoved John’s head into the water. His body turned rigid against the onslaught, his head pushed against the hand knotted in his hair.</p>
<p class="p3">They brought him up for air, and he gasped, water streaming down his face, dripping down his neck and soaking his clothes. As John gasped again for another breath, they slammed his face back into the water below.</p>
<p class="p3">They kept him under longer this time. When they finally pulled his head back out, John coughed with harsh retches and his body writhed, water spewing from his nose and mouth. He groaned, closing his eyes tight, and his knees shook. John finally raised his head, looking into the camera, still dazed and confused. He was pale and dripping. He shook his head and let it drop, shivering in the silence. Water ran down his body and plastered his hair against his skull.</p>
<p class="p3">The video cut to black.</p>
<p class="p3">Greg stared at the screen for a second, in shock. When he regained his wits, he barked out orders, making sure people were tracking down IP addresses, video analysis, whatever they could to start locating John.</p>
<p class="p3">When he turned around to face Sherlock, he saw the broken man again, only this time, Sherlock was completely frozen. Greg wasn’t sure if he was even breathing.</p>
<p class="p3">He put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and pulled him towards the door. Sherlock came without a fight, which was unusual and added to Greg’s concern. He brought him into his office and sat him down. Knowing the surrounding sounds would only add to Sherlock’s distress, Greg closed the door to shut it out. He faced Sherlock and found him pale and shaking, his gaze clouded over. It was an almost perfect copy of John in the video. Greg shook his head and placed his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders.</p>
<p class="p3">“We’ll get him back. We will, Sherlock.” His voice cracked, “But you can’t leave us now. Sherlock.” He couldn’t hold himself together much longer, so he pulled Sherlock into a rough hug, choking back his own tears.</p>
<p class="p3">When he knew he could trust his voice again, Greg said, “He’s strong. We’ll get him out. Bring him home,” completely sure of it. He just didn’t know how or when.</p>
<p class="p3">After a few moments, he felt Sherlock pat him on the shoulder, silently asking to be released. Greg gave one final squeeze and let him go, standing up to give him room. Sherlock’s eyes still looked clouded by a thick fog, but he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. Greg watched as he pushed two buttons—a number and the call button—put his phone up to his ear, and waited.</p>
<p class="p3">And then Greg heard Sherlock speak for the first time since the video started playing.</p>
<p class="p3">“Mycroft. They have him.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">God, Sherlock was infuriating! John knew he was stressed and upset with Sal’s loss, and now the delay from a stab wound, but could he really not remember their anniversary? It was the day they met, for God’s sake. He’s the one that chose it! Specifically, so that he wouldn’t forget. So why in the hell couldn’t it stick in his fucking mind?! Right: “Only the important stuff, John”. Sherlock’s voice rang through his head.</p>
<p class="p1">John didn’t know where he was going. He had just started walking. It felt good. He decided to walk the rest of the way to Greg’s; he had the whole day, after all. And he needed to burn off some of his ire at his delightful, darling husband. God, that bastard. The fucking prick.</p>
<p class="p1">He continued muttering profanities to himself as he walked along, releasing some of his anger into the environment. John knew he couldn’t say these things to Sherlock. It wasn’t fair with what he was going through right now. But that didn’t mean John didn’t deserve some space. So, he walked.</p>
<p class="p1">He was so lost in his own frustration, he didn’t notice the van pull up beside him. The world went dark, rough fabric scraping against his face, and he felt a sharp prick in his neck. Shit, that wasn’t good. John struggled to fight them off, but there were enough hands to keep him restrained until he felt his muscle coordination weaken.</p>
<p class="p1">His limbs grew heavy.</p>
<p class="p1">His eyelids drooped.</p>
<p class="p1">John’s last thought was Sherlock’s beautiful, vibrant eyes.</p>
<p class="p1">———</p>
<p class="p1">World rumbling, people talking, flashes of bright grey rectangles, and blurry black ovals, body heavy, eyes dry, head pounding, pounding, pounding. The pounding consumed all his conscious thought. John retreated into himself, trying to find the source. Perhaps there was an elephant dancing on his eardrum or a parade passing through on its way to his subconscious. The pounding reverberated through his skull. He opened his eyes again, and one of the ovals leaned over him.</p>
<p class="p1">“Sleep, now. You’ll be needing it.” And the pounding black flooded him.</p>
<p class="p1">———</p>
<p class="p1">“Eat.” Rough hands forced his jaw open. His dry mouth stuck to the bread shoved inside, no spit to help chew. Head lolling back, they wrenched it forward and grabbed his jaw, pushing and pulling it to mimic chewing. After a few moments, they jerked his mouth open again and poured some water inside.</p>
<p class="p1">“Swallow.” John did as he was told, even as the food scraped against his dry throat, the water incapable of wetting it completely. Tossing him down to the mat on the floor, John felt calloused hands shifting his arms up, his legs apart.</p>
<p class="p1">A smooth voice spoke from farther away, “Leave him. We don’t want Mr. Smith getting upset that we messed with his toy.”</p>
<p class="p1">The hands threw down his limbs, and a grunt echoed in his ears. The looming shadow left his vision.</p>
<p class="p1">“What the boss don’t know, the boss won’t mind.” The rough voice spoke back, now several feet away.</p>
<p class="p1">“Well, you know what he does to those who upset him. Take your chances if you want,”</p>
<p class="p1">Again, only a grunt came in response. The room went black, and a clang sounded through the air. The darkness pulled John under again.</p>
<p class="p1">———</p>
<p class="p1">Sherlock floated to him. John would question why he wasn’t walking normally, but it didn’t matter: John’s arms were already outstretched, ready to receive him. God, he was gorgeous. The way his curls framed his face. The tilt of his cheekbones perfectly couching his pale, bright eyes. His lips curling up into that smile he only bestowed on John. The slope of his shoulders. The grace of his arms and hands. Jesus, what he would do with those hands.</p>
<p class="p1">Sherlock stopped in front of him, allowing himself to be wrapped in an embrace. He swept a finger across John’s forehead, moving a loose section of hair back into place, his face shimmering and hazy around the edges.</p>
<p class="p1">“John.” Sherlock beamed down at him. Light shone from his face, illuminating the area around them. John was too focused on the face before him to notice anything else. Sherlock inched closer. John could feel the puffs of air on his cheeks as Sherlock breathed. “Stay with me, John.” The words were hot against his skin. “Stay with me, and don’t get lost to this.” The words filled his lungs as Sherlock spoke, lips ghosting against lips. “Promise me.”</p>
<p class="p1">John slid his eyes closed and nodded. “I promise.” Now, it was his lips tracing against Sherlock’s. He felt a hand slide up the nape of his neck and into his hair, cradling his head.</p>
<p class="p1">Pain lanced across the back of John’s skull as fingers gripped tight into his hair. “Rise and shine, Johnny boy.” Hands scraped against his chin. “Time for another meal.” More bread was forced down his throat. He choked and started to cough, but the hands and the pain held him in place.</p>
<p class="p1">All he could think as the horrific meal progressed was how much he missed Sherlock and his tender embrace.</p>
<p class="p1">———</p>
<p class="p1">John blinked awake, trying to bring the hazy, tilted world around him into focus. Swirling walls and ceilings grew close and distant and close again, his mind trying to reinvent depth perception. He reached out, but his hand wasn’t where it should be. Trying again, he still couldn’t find it. John looked down at his side and saw it. When he reached out with his other hand to help pick it up, that one was missing, too.</p>
<p class="p1">He looked to his other side. There it was. His brow furrowed in frustration, concentration, and confusion as he commanded his arms to move and nothing happened. Then, he watched his skin bubble. Red ants broke through and light his skin on fire.</p>
<p class="p1"><em>Oh. </em>He was drugged. His arms must have fallen asleep, stuck in the same position for too long, and now the blood was rushing back into them. But fuck if it didn’t feel exactly like ants biting and crawling out of his skin.</p>
<p class="p1">The door screeched open on its metal hinges, and two wavy figures walked in.</p>
<p class="p1">“Time for your meal,” the smooth voice said. John blinked and opened his eyes wide, trying to bring the world back into some semblance of reality. He was being force-fed again. Before John could fully grasp what was happening, the darkness overtook him.</p>
<p class="p1">———</p>
<p class="p1">This time, only one figure entered. Again, the same ritual of food and water.</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh, what I would do to you.” John recognized the voice. It was the gruff one from the first time. He didn’t want to think about what the voice meant with those words. A large hand brushed the hair off his forehead. “You would be fun, I think. I think you wouldn’t mind being roughed up a bit. Wouldn’t mind a slap or three. You look strong. You could handle it.” With a sharp pull of his hair, John’s head was wrenched back. “You’d like it, wouldn’t you?”</p>
<p class="p1">The screech of the door took the hot breath off of John’s cheek.</p>
<p class="p1">“What the fuck did I tell you? The boss doesn’t like his toys played with before he’s had a chance. Back off.” The smooth voice sounded angry this time.</p>
<p class="p1">“Fine.” John was left blissfully cold. The door screeched again.</p>
<p class="p1">Letting gravity help his body move, John leaned forward and wretched, bringing up the food that had just been forced down. Absently, he thought maybe he should thank Gruff Voice for helping him remove the drugs that were no doubt in the water.</p>
<p class="p1">———</p>
<p class="p1">The next time the door screeched, John was more lucid. The last dose of whatever they were giving him had been emptied onto the floor in front of the mat he was laying on.</p>
<p class="p1">Leaning against the wall as the people took in the scene around them, John watched from his seated lax position. Bodies obscured in the light, masks covering their features.</p>
<p class="p1">“Fuck. He didn’t get the full dose last time.”</p>
<p class="p1">“I can fucking see that. Smell it, too. God. What did you do?”</p>
<p class="p1">“What did I do? He’s the one that fucking puked everywhere.”</p>
<p class="p1">John watched the argument take place, but had some trouble following it. The voices and movements blended and bled into one another. They moved towards him, avoiding the sick.</p>
<p class="p1">“Well, let’s fucking make sure this shit works this time.” John felt the rough hand around his chin, but he was able to keep his mouth closed against the onslaught of aching pressure on his jaw.</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh, you think you can fight against this, huh? Think you can avoid taking your medicine?” John’s head whipped around, and he was thrown roughly onto his side. “Fucking baby.” A swift kick caught him in the stomach.</p>
<p class="p1">“Get the needle.”</p>
<p class="p1">The shadow over John disappeared, and he heard steps moving away, growing softer.</p>
<p class="p1">“You’re going to regret that, you know,” the smooth voice said from overhead. The footsteps started echoing in the hallway outside the door.</p>
<p class="p1">As they entered the room, the gruff voice said, “Brought some handcuffs, too.”</p>
<p class="p1">John felt his arms wrenched behind him, steel bite into his wrists. That wasn’t going to do his shoulder any favors. He felt the pinch and prick of a needle, and the world washed away.</p>
<p class="p1">———</p>
<p class="p1">“John. John. JOHN!” Sherlock’s voice grew urgent, but John couldn’t find him. He was hiding, and the voice was echoing from every direction. “John!”</p>
<p class="p1">Oh. To the left. John stumbled through the inky blackness, arms outstretched.</p>
<p class="p1">“John!” To the right now. He spun the other direction and followed his feet.</p>
<p class="p1">“John!” The voice boomed behind him. He turned around, vertebrae by vertebrae, knowing something was wrong. Towering over him was a 70-foot-tall Sherlock, coat billowing in a wind that came from nowhere.</p>
<p class="p1">Sherlock bent over and picked up John by the collar of his jacket, pinched between his thumb and forefinger. He brought him up to look at John, who was now the length of his nose. Satisfied, he began to bring him to his side. “You’ll be safe here.”</p>
<p class="p1">John was falling, falling, falling.</p>
<p class="p1">And then he wasn’t. Everything was dark and warm and safe. Thick ropes rubbed against his skin, but they were soft. The smell was intoxicating, overwhelming his senses with home.</p>
<p class="p1">He was in Sherlock’s pocket, right where he should be.</p>
<p class="p1">———</p>
<p class="p1">He heard the door screech open. Felt himself lifted and dragged along. Sherlock was whispering that everything was going to be fine, he just had to make it back home first.</p>
<p class="p1">The bright light disoriented him as he was brought into a large concrete and tiled room. There was a water trough in the center. A camera aimed directly at it, the red eye blinking unremittingly.</p>
<p class="p1">“It’s alright, John. I’m going to be right here. I’m not going to leave you. I promise.” John took strength in those words, in that deep voice that he loved so much. Everything was going to be fine.</p>
<p class="p1">And then Sherlock appeared before him, sliding a hand down the length of his arm. “A case, John. A case!”</p>
<p class="p1">———</p>
<p class="p1">Shivering, drenched, and dazed, John was hauled back to his tiny cell. Harsh laughter rebounded off the walls, following him back. He was tossed inside his room by one arm, throwing him off balance. Catching himself with a shoulder on the floor, John scrambled to get his feet back under him before they could land any blows. But he was grasped by the elbow and pulled to his feet.</p>
<p class="p1">“How’s that for a little fun?” Gruff Voice asked. “I think we should have some more.”</p>
<p class="p1">John felt the cold bite of steel by his collarbone before he saw the hand holding the knife. He froze. His heart pounded against his chest. His lungs, still aching for air, stopped, the knife pressed against the hollow of his throat.</p>
<p class="p1">Steeling himself as best he could under the haze of the drugs, John turned his gaze into the eyes before him. They did not meet his in return, instead focusing on the play of the knife with the tip of his shirt collar, the face still obscured by a mask.</p>
<p class="p1">“Well, these are ruined now. Should get you some replacements. It’s ok, I can help with that.” A quick flash of light on metal and John felt the cool air sharply against his wet skin as the cut shirt draped open.</p>
<p class="p1">“Antares, what the fuck have I told you about messing with the boss’ things?” The normally smooth voice dripped with venom. “I won’t tell you again.”</p>
<p class="p1">“I was just having a bit of fun,” Antares responded. He shoved John onto his mat. “No harm done. Just wanted to get him all prettied up for later.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Yeah, well, leave him for now. We’ve got to wait for our next orders. Clear?”</p>
<p class="p1">“Crystal.”</p>
<p class="p1">John was alone again. Exhausted. Cold. Unnerved. He lay on his mat, curled tight, begging for escape, for Sherlock to take him away from this. Even as he rebelled, his body pulled him under once more.</p>
<p class="p1">———</p>
<p class="p1">It had probably been almost two hours now. It had to be. John’s fingers and arms had gone numb, and his shoulders were aching. His feet felt hot, stiff, and swollen from the blood poolingin his ankles. Going by the twelve hours he previously guessed when they first led him down the hallway and strung him up here, and the two more now, it had been about 14 since John had been handcuffed in that cell-like room. Two hours of randomized beating. It was as if they decided he would make a suitable replacement punching bag.</p>
<p class="p1">Now that he was strung up, they stopped trying to drug him. But they still gave him small bits of food and water so they could extend the fun before he passed out. But Antares hadn’t been back alone again, only with others. Perhaps this boss of his had caught on and put a proper stop to it. Small blessings.</p>
<p class="p1">John took another pass around the room as well as he could from his current position. The drain kept attracting his attention. The long thin slot ran the length of the floor.</p>
<p class="p1">He shivered. His clothes, still mildly damp from earlier, clung to his body, torn shirt flutteringagainst his skin. They were only adding to the chill of the room. John let himself slide back into his safe space, into warmth, away from the aches and pains of his current body. And Sherlock met him there, ready for the thrill of the chase.</p>
<p class="p1">The pain and fists pulled him from his reverie. The words cut through the haze and into his consciousness. The pale, cold, hard gaze chilled him even further.</p>
<p class="p1">"Tell me. How much does he know? What does Mr. Holmes know?”</p>
<p class="p1">John let his eyes glaze over, felt his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth. Tasted the metallic flavor of blood, focused on his pain, on his body, kept his mind lucid now. He wasn’t going to give this man anything, especially not Sherlock.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">Promising to forward the video so he could do his own analysis, Greg had sent Sherlock home to 221B. Right now, Greg couldn’t deny him anything if he tried. Somehow, after that brief moment of shock, Sherlock had schooled himself. Brought back the hard façade. He was the detective once again, instead of the blubbering husband Greg half-expected. The only tells Greg saw of the anxious man underneath were the crinkles around his eyes and the absent-minded twirling of the silver ring on his left hand, which he always kept immaculate.</p><p class="p1">After getting Sherlock into a cab and sending him off, Greg texted Mycroft.</p><p class="p1">
  <b>Proof John’s alive. It’s not pretty. Will forward it. Sherlock is on his way home. </b>
  <b></b>
</p><p class="p1">He stared down at his phone, waiting as the three dots danced. Finally:</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Thank you. I would like to do my own analysis of the content. I am already back at my house. Do you think this is a danger night or is he too determined? MH</em>
</p><p class="p1">Greg’s shoulders dropped, and his stance slackened. He hadn’t realized the tension he had been holding. Seeing Mycroft’s question allowed him to release his own worries about the situation.</p><p class="p1">
  <b>Honestly, I think he is too determined. </b>
  <b></b>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Alright, then. I will analyze from here. MH</em>
</p><p class="p1">Greg slipped his phone into his pocket and walked back into the building, meandering his way through the halls as his thoughts dove straight ahead. They had to find John.</p><p class="p1">When he got back to his office, Greg sent off the copies of the video to Sherlock and Mycroft. He started combing through the video himself, even though he knew his analysis team was currently doing the same time. Greg couldn’t just wait.</p><p class="p1">There was nothing to see in the damn video other than the state John was being kept in. He was obviously drugged, handcuffed, sleep-deprived but fed, disoriented. Greg hated watching his friend being half-drowned, over and over. But he needed something, anything. He assumed Mycroft and Sherlock were in the same boat because he hadn’t heard anything from them either.</p><p class="p1">Two hours of obsessive combing passed before Greg received another email, also addressed to Sherlock. He closed his eyes with a deep sigh. Time to start this all again. Informing IT to get started running the check, Greg texted Sherlock and Mycroft, letting them know he would forward it along when he could. It was getting late, and he didn’t need to watch Sherlock’s face again. It was hard enough the first time.</p><p class="p1">IT permissions came through; it was time to open the email.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes, </em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>We wanted to let you know, he’s doing just fine here with us. No need to worry. </em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>*Video attached*</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Sincerely, </em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Mr. Sirius Smith</em>
</p><p class="p1">Greg started the video, alone in his office, and watched as his best friend was strung up and pummeled, with no way to fight back. God, those fucking bastards. They were toying with them, reveling in it. Greg was going to make them pay. Dearly.</p><p class="p1">He slammed his laptop shut and dropped his head into his hands, gripping his hair. He gave himself a moment to breathe. This was fucking crazy. After a few deep inhales and exhales, Greg put his hand on the cover of his laptop, sighed once more, and opened it up. Avoiding the video stills, he forwarded the email to Sherlock and Mycroft. Closing the laptop less forcefully this time, Greg leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hands down his face, letting out an aggravated breath before choking back a sob.</p><p class="p1">God, Johnny. He had to make it out, he just had to. Greg stared at the blank wall of his office, not thinking, not seeing, not doing. Until someone walked by his window. The movement caught his attention. Brought him back into the present and out of his head.</p><p class="p1">There was a flurry of activity, people calling out to each other, phones ringing and being answered, files passed around, movement back and forth. Greg looked over the chaos of his department and sighed. “We’ll find him. We have to.”</p><p class="p1">He watched one of the officers pick up a ringing phone, look up, and gesture that the call was for him. He picked up his receiver as the line was transferred over. At the same time, his cell buzzed. “Sherlock Holmes” flashed on the screen.</p><p class="p1">“Gregory?” Mycroft’s voice came through the receiver.</p><p class="p1">“Hold on just a sec. Sherlock’s also calling.” Greg picked up the call and brought it to his other ear. “Hey, Sherlock. I’ve got Mycroft on the office line, too. Now, knowing the two of you, you’ve got something for me. And it’s probably the same something.” Sherlock scoffed; Mycroft hummed. “Well, boys, what is it?”</p><p class="p1">They responded at the same time. “The drain.”</p><p class="p1">Greg was lost. “The drain,” he repeated.</p><p class="p1">“I was looking at the video…” “I noticed in the photo stills…” Both Holmes brothers started.</p><p class="p1">“Hold up. Hold up. I can’t hear when you both talk at the same time.” Everything was silent for a moment. Greg put them both on speaker. “Sherlock, you first.” He could feel Mycroft’s annoyance and Sherlock’s smugness through the phones.</p><p class="p1">Sherlock’s deep voice rumbled through the speaker. “Right, as I was saying. I was looking at the video footage and noticed the edge of the drain running across the floor. Lestrade, those slot types are only used in a few places. And with the concrete and tiling, I am confident he is being held at an abattoir. A slaughterhouse, Lestrade. It fits all the requirements needed for their organ trading business, too!”</p><p class="p1">Greg let the information sink in for a moment. “And Mycroft? What do you think?”</p><p class="p1">“That is also what I got from the stills, Gregory.”</p><p class="p1">Greg leaned back in his chair and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Alright, alright. Now we are getting somewhere. I’ll draft up a warrant, while you two work on narrowing down which one. I’ll call you back in an hour for updates. Agreed?”</p><p class="p1">The echoing responses from both phones confirmed the plan. The lines went blank. Greg decided he needed to work from home. If he wanted to be at his best, he’d need to sleep for a few hours after the update. He packed up, gave his instructions to those still there, and left.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Finally caught up in the timeline!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <em>The present</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Sherlock hunches over the screen in his lap, scouring through the data from Mycroft and the film. Flashing images pass in front of his eyes as he scans the abattoirs on the outskirts of London. The one being used must be far enough away to reduce suspicion, close enough for the London homeless population to be the victim pool, and not currently in use as an abattoir—the number of health code violations would be absurd. Image after image sweep by on the screen as Sherlock clicks through potential locations.</p><p class="p1">Keeping a running tally of likely buildings, he focuses on the most derelict or abandoned, that is, until he comes across a property sold recently, just at the start of construction. Sherlock expands his search, widens the area slightly, and lowers the parameters he’s set in place. He will <em>not</em> miss the location due to poor research. John’s safety, his life, is at stake. Balancing detail against speed, Sherlock creates a full list of possible locations.</p><p class="p1">20. 20 potential locations to start with. He stands, pacing the flat, tugging at his hair with both hands. Too many. Must find John. John. His John. His poor, broken, battered John. He would be a mess when he finally got home. <em>If</em> he got home. No. Stop. Need to focus. Narrow the possibilities.</p><p class="p1">Stopping in the middle of flat, fingers pressed against his temples, Sherlock closes his eyes and lets the information scroll before him. Nodding, he sorts the options into two categories: ‘likely’ and ‘unlikely’. In the end, only five remain. Sherlock dives back to his laptop, fingers flying across the keys. Blueprints, permits, sales, business plans, news articles, social media posts. He searches through everything, finally narrowing it to three. Three probable locations of where John might be. Three is still too many.</p><p class="p1">Pulling out his phone, Sherlock begins pacing again and calls Mycroft.</p><p class="p1">“Hello, brother mine. I assume you’ve narrowed the possibilities?” The flat and slowed tone of Mycroft’s voice gives away his exhaustion.</p><p class="p1">Sherlock pauses, giving himself time to think before responding. “Yes, but when was the last time you ate, Mycroft?” The silence is telling. “Mycroft.” Sherlock's tone is stern, “I won’t tell you anything until you eat something. For God’s sake, you’re worse than me.”</p><p class="p1">“And tell me, when was the last time <em>you</em> ate, Sherlock?” Mycroft asks, throwing the question back onto him.</p><p class="p1">Sherlock calculates, knowing it was when Mrs. Hudson procured the sandwich for him. Now, when was that? “About nine hours ago.” A smug tone he didn’t expect slips through.</p><p class="p1">After a slight pause, Mycroft responds, “Well, better than I expected.” He sighs. “Fine. I concede. I will eat and call you back. Take this time to do something for yourself, too.”</p><p class="p1">“I’m not the one with the problem, Mycroft,” Sherlock says without thinking. The small, sharp inhale across the line causes him to close his eyes. Bringing his fingers to the bridge of his nose, he continues, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Please, take care of yourself.” He drops his hand and looks up at the ceiling. “And I know you’re right. I promise to eat, too.” A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, “Must keep my strength up after all. I can’t have my brother thinking he is the smartest when, obviously, that title is reserved for me.”</p><p class="p1">Sherlock knows this conversation is a waste of time, but he can’t let his brother fall into darkerdepths. Not now. Not when Sherlock needs him. So, he teases, prods. It’s what Mycroft needs.</p><p class="p1">“I will not engage with so obvious a ruse. Goodbye, Sherlock. I will call you.” The line goes silent.</p><p class="p1">Sherlock tosses his phone on the coffee table. Unbidden, the image of a roofing tile pops into his head. The loose one that’s easily reached by a short climb through the bedroom window, hiding a weather-proof box, which holds a small bottle and a syringe. Waving away the dangerous but delicious thought, Sherlock rummages through the cupboards, finding some biscuits to snack on.</p><p class="p1">Box under his arm, he continues to pace, waiting for Mycroft to call back. Sherlock stuffs whole biscuits into his mouth, one after the other. He hadn’t realized quite how hungry he was. Allowing himself to slow down during this intermission, he plops onto the couch. He swings his feet up on the table, leans his head back, and closes his eyes.</p><p class="p1">Here, everything is exactly the same, except John is curled up next to him. Resting his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, tucked against his neck. Sherlock turns his head, nestling his nose into John’s gold, silver-streaked hair, and breathes in. Smelling his shampoo, his shaping cream, and underlying John-ness, Sherlock finally settles. This is safe, home. This is John. He lets his shoulders drop, his jaw unclench, his forehead relax. Bringing his feet to the floor, he forces his thigh muscles to release, his hands and feet to uncurl, his breathing to slow, and his head to fall back onto the back of the couch. He counts. Breathe in for five, hold for five, out for five, hold for five. Repeat.</p><p class="p1">Sherlock hasn’t allowed himself to let go this much since...he can’t remember when. Certainly not since the start of this case, but if the flares of his addiction were making themselves known, then a bit of respite is needed, required, even. Sinking into the cushions, imagining the extra weight of John by his side, Sherlock lets himself breathe.</p><p class="p1">In this state of relaxation, the knife wound in his side aches, still healing. Though, the added itchiness must be a good sign. Sherlock takes stock of the rest of his transport. Small headache building behind his eyes, mildly dry tongue, sore shoulders, aching back. Nothing a bit of water and a change of position couldn’t fix.</p><p class="p1">He turns once again to the man beside him. Gazing down at the lax face on his shoulder, Sherlock traces his fingertips along the side of John’s neck, over his jaw, across his lips, feeling puffs of hot breath as he does. He brushes the hair off John’s forehead with the back of his fingers before sliding them under his chin and tilting it up. Placing a kiss to the tip of John’s nose, Sherlock whispers, “I’ll find you. I promise.”</p><p class="p1">John smiles up at him. “I know.”</p><p class="p1">The sound of the phone vibrating across the table breaks his reverie. His eyes pop open, and he picks up the call.</p><p class="p1">“Mycroft.” The tension slowly creeps back into Sherlock’s body. “What did you eat?” Sherlock can hear the eye roll through the phone, along with the sigh.</p><p class="p1">“A cup of tea with lemon and sugar, a small salad with dressing, a slice of cheese, five almonds, and two slices of ham. Happy?” Mycroft’s irritation slipping through makes Sherlock smirk.</p><p class="p1">He schools himself and drops the smile. “Yes. Good. Very well, then.” Tapping his fingers against his thigh, he continues. “I have narrowed it down to three possible locations. I need your surveillance to determine which is correct.”</p><p class="p1">“You have it. Send me the coordinates, and I’ll look into it.”</p><p class="p1">Sherlock slides his eyes closed again and rubs his forehead. “Thank you, Mycroft.” Dropping his head back onto the couch, he realizes he doesn’t know the time. As he presses his fingers against his eyes to help relieve some of the headache still building there, Sherlock says, “Tell me, should we be hearing from Lestrade soon? I haven’t been keeping track of time.”</p><p class="p1">There is a pause from the other end of the line. Presumably, Mycroft hasn’t been paying attention either. Sherlock hears a small grunt before his response. “We should have heard from him half an hour ago.”</p><p class="p1">Sherlock bolts upright, the previously expelled tension in his body returning. “And you haven’t heard anything from him?” The slight rise to his voice betrays his increasing concern.</p><p class="p1">Mycroft’s tone matches Sherlock’s. “No. Have you?”</p><p class="p1">He looks down at his phone, checking to see if he missed any messages. Bringing it back up to his ear, he shakes his head and says, “I haven’t, either.”</p><p class="p1">“Fuck,” and the line is dead. Sherlock starts timing. A minute passes, two. After the third minute, he rings his brother again.</p><p class="p1">“Mycroft,” he soothes, knowing already what the answer is, “did you reach him?”</p><p class="p1">“No.” Sherlock hears a choked back sob. “No, I’m having Anthea pull the CCTV, now.” He leans forward, propping his forehead in a hand, waiting. Minutes pass, feeling like hours, days. Finally, “Sherlock. It’s the same as before. Heading home, tampered CCTV, he’s gone. They’ve taken him.”</p><p class="p1">Sherlock’s phone vibrates in his hand, and his laptop chimes. An email.</p><p class="p1">“Mycroft.” Walking over to his laptop, he cradles the phone with his shoulder to free up both hands. “I’ve received an email. Subject line:<em> Hello, again</em>. I have a feeling we both know who it’s from.”</p><p class="p1">Mycroft’s voice wavers slightly in his response, “Yes. Open it.”</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Dear Mr. and Mr. Holmes,</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>As you’ve no doubt noticed by now, we’ve found John dear a friend. </em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Please, do hesitate in your attempts to retrieve them. They are doing just fine.</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>*Video attached*<br/>
</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Sincerely, </em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Mr. Sirius Smith</em>
</p><p class="p1">Sherlock plays the video.</p><p class="p1">Four figures clad in black drag Lestrade into view. His head lolling back in a daze, his knees dragging on the ground, his wrists cuffed behind his back. They drop him onto the hard floor, face cracking against the ground. Rolling to his side, he groans. A swift kick catches him in the gut causing him to curl into himself. Another foot catches him in the back of his ribs. Another leg swings back aiming for Lestrade’s head...</p><p class="p1">Sherlock slams the screen shut. He can’t watch anymore of this. Knowing Mycroft would not be able to view it without a breakdown, he tells him, “More of the same. Confirmation that they have Lestrade. You don’t need to see it.” A small, choked-off whine echoes through the phone. Sherlock hasn’t heard that sound escape his brother’s lips in more than a decade. “I know, Mycroft. We’ll get them back. But to do so, we need to focus. Need surveillance.” Making sure Mycroft is listening, Sherlock pauses, letting his words sink in. “We must find where they are keeping them. Can you do that?”</p><p class="p1">With a scoff and a sniff, regaining some control of his emotions, Mycroft responds, “Of course. I’m me, aren’t I?”</p><p class="p1">Sherlock smirks. “Yes, you are, brother. Now, here are the coordinates…”</p><p class="p1">~~~</p><p class="p1">Head pounding, body aching, light blinding him, Greg lays curled on his side. He squints and blinks, trying to make the world around him stop tilting and righting itself and tilting again, over and over. Nausea swells up, making him squeeze his eyes shut, hold his breath, clench his throat, anything to stop the wave from becoming more.</p><p class="p1">A dry, rough, cracking voice calls out, “Hey.”</p><p class="p1">When he doesn’t respond, the voice, stronger now, calls out again, “Hey. Greggie.”</p><p class="p1">Greg’s eyes snap open and roam the room, careful not to aggravate his symptoms. Another form wavers into view. Squinting to focus his blurry vision, the shape of a man, sitting in the corner, solidifies. A man with sandy blonde hair. Someone who calls him Greggie.</p><p class="p1">“John?” his voice is barely a whisper. Coughing, he says again “John? Is that you?”</p><p class="p1">A flash of white shows through the blur of where the man’s face should be. “Greggie, hey, yeah. It’s me, John.” Waves of relief echo through John’s response.</p><p class="p1">Greg tries to sit up, but John interrupts, “No, no. Don’t move.” At the questioning glance from Greg, he continues, “They got you pretty bad. You look like you’ve got a couple of fractures, probably several broken bones if I were to guess, and probably a pretty severe concussion.” The silence is brief. “I’d check you over, but I’m not in a much better position myself. How’s your vision?”</p><p class="p1">Closing his eyes and fighting back a groan, Greg pushes out a single word in response.“Blurry.” He hears John sigh.</p><p class="p1">“Ok. Ok. Alright. Try sleeping while you can. I’ll wake you up in a bit if we haven’t been already. Everything’s gonna be alright.”</p><p class="p1">Greg nods and realizes his mistake. He should not have done that. After allowing the pain and nausea to pass, he calls out one more time, “Johnny?”</p><p class="p1">“Yeah?”</p><p class="p1">“It’s good to see you.”</p><p class="p1">A soft chuckle warms his ears, “Good to see you, too, Greggie.”</p><p class="p1">Blackness drowns him.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">Excitement, fear, worry, devastation, hope, elation. Swirling, colliding, overwhelming, subsiding, the emotions send John on a rollercoaster. He can’t tell what to feel anymore. Greg is here with him. He’s not alone anymore. But Greg is now here <em>with</em> him, going through the same terrors John is. And he wouldn’t, <em>doesn’t</em>, wish that on anyone. But John can’t stop being excited to have a friendly face around. Feeling alone and lost has been the hardest part of all this.</p>
<p class="p1">But now, now he has someone else to pull through this, too.</p>
<p class="p1">Without the drugs in his system, John’s thoughts are clearer, more lucid. He feels more in control. After all, he has been trained to handle this. It’s been a while since he’s had to implement that training, no doubt, but he is trained nonetheless. And Greg is no weakling. Watching his friend breathe deep in sleep, John knows they need a plan. They will have to bide their time, wait for the right moment, but it just might work.</p>
<p class="p1">A conversation drifts through the door, breaking into John’s thoughts.</p>
<p class="p1">“...brought this other one in to make sure they came! What’s he thinking? Polaris hasn’t had a chance to cut up anyone in weeks! First, that old geezer sniffing around, and now these bastards. If Polaris doesn’t get anyone soon, we’re not getting paid!”</p>
<p class="p1">John doesn’t recognize the voice that speaks next, though he is quite intimate with the fists it belongs to. “Antares...speak about the boss like...in trouble.” He can hear the chastisement in the tone.</p>
<p class="p1">As the conversation continues, John’s mind begins to slot bits and pieces into place. Antares must be low ranking, acting as the muscle. Enough people give him orders. Sirius is obviously the leader as he is the only one to question John about what he might know. Smooth Voice, two others from the boxing practice, and now this mysterious Polaris.</p>
<p class="p1">A loud, rattling thud against the door startles John back into the conversation.</p>
<p class="p1">“Look here, Betelguese. I know you technically out-rank me,” a second, softer thud shakes the door, “but don’t mistake that with having control over me. If this plan goes south—which I’m seeing as highly likely right about now—I’m taking my share and high-tailing it out of here. Got it?” A brief silence must hold the response Antares wanted because he continues, “Good.”</p>
<p class="p1">Hearing a slide and a thud, John assumes Antares choked Betelguese against the door. Tension amidst the ranks bodes well for them.</p>
<p class="p1">Knowing better now what they are up against, the beginning of a plan takes shape in John’s mind.</p>
<p class="p1">A groan pulls his attention back to the huddled form on the other side of the little room. Streaks of blood stain the grey hair facing away from him. Greg shifts, and John calls out in a harsh whisper, “Greg. Greggie, hey!” </p>
<p class="p1">With squinted eyes, Greg turns his head, seeking out the voice. He locks eyes with John. “Oh. Hey, Johnny.” He coughs.</p>
<p class="p1">“Shh, shh. You’ve got to whisper. It’ll help your head,” <em>and not get us in trouble</em>, John adds to himself. “How’s it feeling? How’s your vision?”</p>
<p class="p1">“Better. I can see your ugly mug, now.” A smile tugs at the corner of Greg’s mouth.</p>
<p class="p1">Smiling back, John says, “Great, take a deep breath for me.” He watches as Greg does as he asks, and can see when the pain contorts his face, making his breath stutter. “Ok. Ok. Careful, now. What did that feel like?”</p>
<p class="p1">“Like someone bloody well kicked me in the ribs.”</p>
<p class="p1">“That’s kind of what it looks like, too.” John runs his eyes over him, trying to discern what he can with his impaired vision in the dim light of the room. “Now, try to wiggle your fingers and toes, any pain?”</p>
<p class="p1">Small movements show Greg is listening to the instructions. “No, but there’s some aching in my arms and legs when I do.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Probably just some deep bruising, then.” Taking stock of himself, John runs through the same basic tests. His assessment reveals a similar diagnosis to Greg’s: a couple of fractured ribs, deep bruising, concussion, and the added broken orbital bone. “Seems like we’re pretty much in the same boat.”</p>
<p class="p1">Greg gives a huff of acknowledgment. “So what’s the plan?” he asks, deferring to John’s leadership.</p>
<p class="p1">“Well, here’s what I know so far…”</p>
<p class="p1">~~~</p>
<p class="p1">Having sent a car to retrieve Sherlock, Mycroft pours over the information he has, once again. This Mr. Sirius Smith, the leader and fund provider, has Gregory and John in his clutches. The surgeon, known as Polaris, performs the surgeries at this abattoir, sends the organs off to the client, and then disposes of the bodies using the incinerator. Pollux, the right-hand man, acts as the brains of the operation. Vega and Betelguese are the chemists and transporters, identifying and drugging the victims. And Antares, the brute force. He is the muscle, the weak-link. Not overly clever and money-hungry.</p>
<p class="p1">They know the players. They know the location and the layout. Now, all they need is the plan.</p>
<p class="p1">Hearing the door slam and the hurried, heavy footsteps, Mycroft moves from his study, heading toward the kitchen. He sees the dark fury that is Sherlock striding toward him. The penetrating gaze, the furrowed brow, hands shoved in the pockets of his billowing coat, pulled up to his full height. This is a man on a mission and one Mycroft was glad to be joining with and not fighting against. He knows the strength hiding underneath the lean façade, even with the added impediment of a healing knife wound.</p>
<p class="p1">“Hello, brother.” The anticipation of retrieving Gregory and John bleeds through into a curl of his lip. “Are you ready?”</p>
<p class="p1">Glaring, Sherlock says, “What an absurd question. The real question is, do you have a plan?”</p>
<p class="p1">“I do. I’ve already had Anthea start writing up the brief for the team that will be joining us.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Team?” Sherlock asks, his face scrunching up in concentration. “Oh. Of course.” Sherlock steeples his fingers against his lips, playing a rhythm Mycroft doesn’t immediately recognize. “Yes, that makes sense. There are seven of them, after all.”</p>
<p class="p1">Tilting his head, Mycroft narrows his eyes. “Seven? I do believe you are mistaken, brother mine. There are six.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh, don’t be stupid, Mycroft.” Waving the mistaken correction out of the air, Sherlock lays out the information. “Mr. Sirius Smith, the leader. Polaris, the surgeon. Pollux, the lieutenant. Vega and Betelguese, the chemists. Antares, the muscle. But, who do you think has been sending and scrambling the emails and tampering with the CCTV cameras? None of them have the expertise. There has been evidence of a seventh member sprinkled throughout this whole investigation, and you know it.”</p>
<p class="p1">He points a finger at Mycroft. “You just avoided the truth. Ignored doing the legwork to prove your answer.” Turning from his brother and bringing his fingers back to his lips, Sherlock continues, “But I found them. Cassiopeia. The real brains behind the operation. Controlling every movement, every transaction, every negotiation. They are the one we have to find, Mycroft.” He faces his brother once more, staring him down with a hard edge around his mouth. “If we don’t capture them, it will continue.”</p>
<p class="p1">Mycroft leans forward, his bare elbows on the cold marble of the kitchen island, rubbing circles around his temples. “Shit.” Closing his eyes, he scans through the documents mentally, and all the data Sherlock mentioned flies forward, making it obvious he was right. Righting himself, Mycroft looks at Sherlock and, with a flat tone, says, “Tell me the plan.”</p>
<p class="p1">Sherlock smirks. “Gladly.”</p>
<p class="p1">~~~</p>
<p class="p1">Thank God, Johnny’s got a good head on his shoulders. Even in the midst of being drugged and beaten, he had determined the inner workings of the team and taken stock of their surroundings. Greg can’t believe John noticed the weakness of the hook he had been hanging from in The Room. Having watched John in that room repeatedly through a screen, Greg feelshe knows it intimately, though he has yet to be in it himself. It deserves a title. The Room</p>
<p class="p1">Looking over at John, vision almost clear, grey light illuminating the room from a small window in the door, Greg sees the toll these last few days have had on him. Beneath the fall of his golden-grey hair, black, purple, and blue bruises cover most of John’s face, broken up by the scruff of his beard and dried streaks of blood. His face is swollen and slack around the right eye from the fist Greg watched land there on the video. His eyes graze over the strain and the puffiness of his scarred shoulder. With the cut-open, blood-stained shirt baring him, Greg winces at the collection of bruises coloring the skin over his chest and abdomen. John looks bad.</p>
<p class="p1">Even with the intelligence John had gleaned, Greg isn’t sure they have the strength to carry out an escape plan, not with two against six. But that doesn’t mean he won’t try. Right now, it’s John’s decision, not his.</p>
<p class="p1">He watches as John’s eyes flutter open from his short sleep. With a sharp inhale, his head lifts abruptly from its lolled position. Casting his eyes out, John finds Greg and starts to get his breathing under control. He offers a small smile.</p>
<p class="p1">“Hey, Greggie. You doing alright?” Concern tightens his features. “How’s the head?”</p>
<p class="p1">Greg huffs in frustration, “I’m <em>fine, </em>Johnny.” He gestures with this head in John’s direction, “You should really be wondering about yourself.”</p>
<p class="p1">Looking down as best his can, John again takes stock of his injuries. He brings his gaze back to Greg’s and gives a half-hearted shrug with one shoulder. “I’ve had worse.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Like hell you have.” Greg rolls his eyes. “John, you’re covered in bruises. How do you know you’re not bleeding internally?”</p>
<p class="p1">Steely eyes flash in his direction. “I don’t. But I do know it’s not severe yet if I am. And that’s why I want to get out of here.” His head falls. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take. And I know I couldn’t watch it happen to you.”</p>
<p class="p1">Greg’s face softens. Opening his mouth to respond, footsteps resound through the hall by their door, and he clamps his jaw shut. The door screeches open, ringing through the air with a piercing note, flooding the room with light. Two figures enter: Betelguese and his partner, though which is which is hard to tell.</p>
<p class="p1">They haul John up, dragging him along between the two of them. As they pass Greg, one eyes him up and down. “We’ll be back for you.” A sneer creeps across his face. “Take you out for a nice walk, stretch your legs.” The door slams shut, taking the light with them.</p>
<p class="p1">Greg listens as the footsteps fade. This is the first he’s been without John since they reunited. And he’s terrified. Frozen in the dark, Greg tries to control his breathing, keep his thoughts focused, stop his limbs from shivering. He will not be found like this. He won’t let them see his fear. With a deep breath, in through his nose and out through his mouth, he lets Mycroft’s voice fill his mind. The posh, sleek voice. <em>Take care, Gregory.</em></p>
<p class="p1">Oh, God. How he loves the sound of his name in that voice. <em>Gregory</em>. He would listen to that for the rest of his life if he could.</p>
<p class="p1">The harsh screeching of the door sounds again.</p>
<p class="p1">“You take his left, I’ll take his right.” The hands scoop under his arms and haul him to his feet. When they pull him forward, his knees buckle. Greg’s weight falls fully into their arms, and they drag him through the hallway and into The Room.</p>
<p class="p1">Already strung up, small flecks of dust rain down on John’s head from the wear of the hook in the ceiling. John watches them approach, face hard and flat, eyes glinting with pain and rage. Greg’s head drops back down, not yet wanting to meet his gaze, not yet wanting to look like him. The light of this room reveals so much more, all the grit, blood, and aches concealed in their cell’s dim lighting. They continue to drag him so Greg is now parallel to John, side by side, and he is strung up, too.</p>
<p class="p1">The feral grins of the men before them make Greg shiver.</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh, he seems so fun. Doesn’t he, Vega?” says one of the men, who must be Betelguese, as he gestures to Greg’s quaking body. Soft fingers fall across his cheek before becoming a hard backhand, whipping his head around to face John.</p>
<p class="p1">Eyes focused on the man hanging beside him, Greg watches John receive the same treatment, pain no doubt lancing through the broken eye bone. Greg whimpers on his behalf before catching himself, knowing he can’t give anything more to these bastards. Bringing his head forward, he stares down at the man before him, an unspoken challenge in his eyes.</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh, ho, oh! Vega, look at this one!” he says, gesturing to Greg. “All riled up. Such a pretty treat.” A grin curls at the corner of his mouth. He leans forward, gripping Greg’s chin, and whispers into his ear. “I am going to have so much fun breaking you.”</p>
<p class="p1">Staring straight ahead, past the man, Greg clenches his jaw beneath the harsh grip. He closes his eyes as he hears flesh being pounded next to him, intermixed with groans and moans. And then Greg is released, and the noise stops.</p>
<p class="p1">Looking down at a device on his belt, Vega says, “What the fuck? Betelguese, we’ve got to see what that alert is about.” He points back at Greg and John, staring them down. “We’ll be back for more fun later.” Turning on his heel, he calls out over his shoulder, “Rest up, lovelies. You’ll be needing it.” He leaves with Betelguese trailing behind. The sound of the latch being thrown across the door echoes through the hollow room.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">“Is everyone in place?” Sherlock asks, focusing straight ahead at the back of the headrest, running through the logistics once more to make sure nothing was missed. He feels Mycroft’s eyes tracing over him, reading the determination and underlying anxiety clear in his taught shoulders, stiff spine, and fidgeting fingers. The burn of his gaze finally leaves.</p><p class="p1">“Yes. Everyone is in place. When we arrive, they will have gear ready for us: vests, guns, helmets, knives, the works. They will await our signal before moving in. Ambulances will be on the scene for John and Gregory once we have retrieved them. We will follow right behind.”</p><p class="p1">Sliding his eyes closed, Sherlock plays the events in his head: calculating, planning, strategizing, readying himself for anything. He knows his brother is doing the same in the seat across from him.</p><p class="p1">They are going to bring John and Lestrade home.</p><p class="p1">Watching the world whisk by as they leave London, Sherlock’s anticipation grows, the minor fidgeting becoming full leg bouncing and finger tapping. He feels a hand on his, stilling his fingers. Without thinking, he grasps onto it tightly, that same hand returning the pressure.</p><p class="p1">“We’ll get them back, ‘Lockie. They’re coming home. I promise.”</p><p class="p1">Continuing to stare out the window, Sherlock grips onto the fingers tighter and releases a sigh. “I know.” With one last squeeze, Sherlock tosses his brother’s hand away before turning his gaze onto him. “But I <em>am</em> the smart one. Missing Cassiopeia.” He rolls his eyes. “You’re slipping, brother.”</p><p class="p1">A small sneer creeps onto Mycroft’s face. “Who found their location, brother mine? And who...nevermind. I will not degrade myself with childish feuds.” Shaking his head slightly, he glances at the road in front of them. “We are almost to the rendezvous. We’ll be outfitted and then move in.”</p><p class="p1">The car slows and pulls off down a small dirt path into a makeshift command center tucked away in a small grove of trees, not far from the abattoir. Tents, vehicles, ambulances, weapons, radios. It’s all here. Sherlock and Mycroft step out of the car once it stops, making their way to the main tent.</p><p class="p1">With a nod to Mycroft and then Sherlock, a man introduces himself. “Mr. Holmes. Mr. Holmes. Welcome, sirs. I’m known as Scotty and will be your main point of contact throughout this operation.” He leads them further into the area, indicating two piles of gear. “These are for you. They should be fitted to your specifications, sirs. Let us know if you need anything else.”</p><p class="p1">Watching him leave, Sherlock turns to his brother first, eyebrow raised in a silent question. Mycroft nods and moves in to strap everything on.</p><p class="p1">Made familiar with similar materials during his time away, Sherlock fits himself with ease into the vest, helmet, and various weapons. He checks the magazine of his gun before throwing on the safety and tucking it into place.</p><p class="p1">Mycroft checks his in the same manner before looking over to Sherlock. Finding him ready, he passes an earpiece over to Sherlock, placing one into his own ear. After a brief soundcheck, they move out, winding their way to the entry point.</p><p class="p1">As they grow closer, Sherlock pulls out the gun, readying it, gesturing for Mycroft to do the same. They continue their slow walk, weapons pointed to the ground, keeping an eye out for any of the group, especially Antares.</p><p class="p1">Staying low to the ground once the abattoir is in view, they run to the side of the building without surveillance. One point in Mycroft’s favor: he knows how to do proper recon for a mission.</p><p class="p1">Following the edge of the building, they reach the dispatch entry door. With one last look back at his brother, Sherlock nods. Fully alert and ready for the worst, they enter together.</p><p class="p1">~~~</p><p class="p1">Hearing the latch thrown, John’s head pops up, searching out Greg.</p><p class="p1">“Greg. It’s now. Now’s our chance.” Taking a deep breath, John turns to face him, good eyebrow raised. “You ready?” Greg gives a firm one nod. With that, John grips the chain with his hands and pulls himself up. Tucking his knees up to his chest, he throws his full weight back down as fast and hard as he can. A rain of dust from the ceiling cascades down.</p><p class="p1">“You got it, Johnny! It’s coming loose. Do it again. It should only take a couple more tries!” John hears the roughness in Greg’s voice from lack of water, and the concern for his friend helps him fight through the blinding pain flaring in his shoulder. Closing his eyes against the onslaught of emotion, pain, and excess stimulus, John preps himself with a huff of determination. His hook is the weak point; he will get them out.</p><p class="p1">Pulling himself up against the screaming of his shoulder, John grinds his teeth, preventing himself from screaming out and bringing attention to them. He doesn’t want Greg to see the pain he is in. Greg might try to stop him, and that is not an option.</p><p class="p1">John drops.</p><p class="p1">Another cascade of dust. Ignoring Greg’s encouragement, he looks up to see the hook is about a centimeter and a half further from the ceiling than it was before. It is working. John preps himself for another pull, when the latch scrapes against the door.</p><p class="p1">John releases his hold on the chain and tries to shake the dust off his head and arms, hoping that whoever enters wouldn’t notice.</p><p class="p1">Antares stalks in. </p><p class="p1">Watching him, a small shiver runs through John’s body. John hasn’t been alone with Antares since Greg arrived, and he is uncertain of what the man might do, even with Greg now hostage beside him. John casts Greg a quick look, imploring him to stay silent. He doesn’t want Greg hurt—not by Antares. </p><p class="p1">Antares locks eyes with John, striding across the room. With a cursory glance at Greg, he turns his attention back to John, his lips curling back into a malicious grin. </p><p class="p1">“Well now. Look at you, my sweet. All dolled up, and nowhere to go.” Cupping John’s face with a rough hand, he gives a few strong pats to his right cheek, just below the broken orbital bone. “Good thing I came to you then, isn’t it?”</p><p class="p1">Stepping back from, Antares stands in front of Greg, still speaking to John, “And look, you brought a friend along. Told him about me, did you?” He traces the back of his fingertips down the side of Greg’s face. Looking over at John, he asks, “He want some, too?” Roughly grabbing around Greg’s jaw, he glares into his eyes, “Do ya? I think you do.” The sound of a wet punch reaches John’s ears, and he knows Greg’s mouth must be filled with blood.</p><p class="p1">With a sharp pat to the cheek he just struck, Antares continues, “You’ll just have to wait your turn, then. I want to deal with this one,” gesturing to John, “before my friends come along.”</p><p class="p1">Antares moves back to John, attempting to consume his vision. John lets him, staring down with his hard, flat blue eyes, refusing to give Antares the pleasure of his fear, submission, or refusal. Instead, he forces his face into an expression of emotionless indifference.</p><p class="p1">“Oh, ho, Johnny boy. You <em>do</em> know how to play this game.” Taking John’s chin in hand again, Antares scratches his fingernails through the scruff starting to develop. “Boy, do I like you,” he growls low in his throat. “It’s a good thing we brought you a little friend.” He nods toward Greg. “I do so enjoy an audience.”</p><p class="p1">Dropping John’s chin, Antares lets his eyes roam down over his torso as he pulls open the sliced shirt. “God, look at you.” The rumble is still present. Antares’ fingertips rove the same path his eyes traced, making John’s muscles jump and flutter against the obtrusive touch. Staring down at Antares’ face, John wills himself not to react, to show no fear.</p><p class="p1">“Well, you are a fun one.” Antares hot breath sears across John’s cheek. “If you react that strongly to such a light touch, no wonder there are such gorgeous bruises over this body of yours.” He leans back again to continue his exploration.</p><p class="p1">John clenches his jaw to quell the rage threatening to spill from his lips. Antagonizing Antares would not turn things in his favor. Rapid, shallow breathing comes from his right; he hates that Greg has to be here, watching this happen. But John thanks whoever is out there that he is the one dealing with it and not Greg.</p><p class="p1">Finding a darkly bruised area near John’s hip, Antares brings his hands over it. “Oh, this is lovely, right here.” He looks up at John’s face, watching the emotions and pain dance across it. Antares slowly squeezes his hand around John’s side and presses his thumb into the deepest part of the bruise. Increasing the pressure bit by bit, he waits to see the change in John’s face.</p><p class="p1">The deep ache focuses into a sharp pinpoint of pain, like a hot icepick driven through his side. Thoughts of internal bleeding flash through John’s mind before they are drowned out with the desire to yell. But he holds it in. As the thumb presses deeper into his psoas muscle, John feels the heat spread up his chest and into his face. Sweat forms on his brow. He grinds his teeth together to keep his mouth closed. John will not give in to this bastard.</p><p class="p1">Turning to address Greg, hands still pressing into John, Antares sneers. “Hope you’re enjoying this as much as I am. Look at his pretty face.” He uses his unoccupied hand to wrench John’s face around towards Greg. “Look at the sheen, the sweat, the determination. You don’t find one like this every day.” Antares brings his and John’s gaze back to each other. “I’m going to make you scream.” As he steps back, he drops his hands from John.</p><p class="p1">With a curl of his upper lip, a fist catches John in the stomach, forcing the breath from him, and, with it, the first sound crosses his lips since Antares entered the room. A smile splits across Antares’’ face. “Ah, so that’s what it takes, hmm?” Planting his feet to take another swing, a small buzz fills the air.</p><p class="p1">“Ah, fuck. What now?” Antares grabs the device by his hip and rolls his eyes. He looks back at John. “I’ll be back for you later.” Taking hold of John’s face again, Antares mashes his lips to his, trying to force his mouth open. Eyes widening, John gives in just enough to get his teeth around Antares’ lip and bite down, hard.</p><p class="p1">Wrenching himself back, Antares backhands John, licking the blood off his lower lip. Another smile curls across his swollen mouth. “Now, there’s more of that fire I’ve been looking for.” He turns on his heel and heads back out the way he came, the door screeching as it opens and shuts. The sound of the latch sliding into place is oddly absent.</p><p class="p1">“Jesus, John. Are you ok?” Greg’s voice carries a slight waver.</p><p class="p1">Tremors begin to shake through John’s body. He doesn’t answer.</p><p class="p1">“John. Johnny.” Still not receiving a response, Greg calls out louder, more urgently. “Listen to me. It’s Greg. Your Greggie.” Desperation starts to seep in. “Come on. John. Come back to me.”</p><p class="p1">A deep breath pauses the trembling. “I’m here. Greg, I’m here. You can stop now.” John lets his body sag for a moment, careful of his shoulder. With a sigh, he finally says, “I’m fine. It’s alright. I’ve been half expecting some stunt like that.” Lifting his head and with a new bound resignation coloring his face, John growls: “Let’s get out of here.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I don't know if any of you noticed, but I did not post yesterday due to the events happening in the U.S. right now around acts of racism and police brutality. I was instead focusing my efforts into further educating myself and doing research into policy changes that can be, and must be, called for around this issue. If you can and have the mental and emotional wellness to, I suggest you do the same.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter 14</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">Once they slip through the doorway, into the fluorescent-lit loading area, Sherlock and Mycroft sweep the room, looking for danger. Arms taught, shoulders relaxed, grip firm. For how much Mycroft hates doing legwork, he knows what he is doing. Having Sherlock at his side bolsters his confidence more than any of his past partners. Mycroft trusts Sherlock, implicitly, and knows he won’t miss a vital clue out of poor observation. Definitely someone competent to have at his side. Only a small tendril of worry wiggles through his mind: his concern for Sherlock’s safety, always present, rearing its head.</p>
<p class="p1">Mycroft pushes the thought aside. The focus now is to find Gregory and John and take down these specks of dust who mistake themselves for stars.</p>
<p class="p1">Empty pallets are strewn around the room, various overturned boxes, shelving off in the corner. Not many places for concealment. Even so, standing side by side, Sherlock’s breathing mixes with his own into the still air around them. The hair on Mycroft’s arms stands on end, a tingling runs down the back of his neck, and he tries to swallow away the tightness forming in his throat. The quiet air morphs into a thick fog, an acrid taste coating his tongue, a low thrum of energy bleeding into his veins.</p>
<p class="p1">Pulse racing through his increasingly rigid frame, Mycroft’s heart pounds. The beating in his ears fills the silence in the room. As the air presses in around them, feeding off their energies, Mycroft sees the tension creep into Sherlock’s shoulders, the stiffness into his thighs. He must feel it, too. The change of the atmosphere seeps down into their bones. With a glance over his shoulder, Sherlock nods; Mycroft returns it. They step forward, together.</p>
<p class="p1">As they cross the expanse of the room to the door at the other end, the crackling energy dissipates. No longer overwhelming, but enough to keep them on edge, alert. Exactly what they need. </p>
<p class="p1">Approaching the door, Sherlock slinks down below the cut-out of the window. He places his back to the door. Once Mycroft is in place, Sherlock takes a deep breath, and peers through, checking for anyone on the other side. Sliding back down, he locks eyes with Mycroft, giving an all-clear signal. Mycroft lowers the door handle with a steady, silent motion as Sherlock repositions to the other side of him. With a slow pull, he tests the door for noises. Finding none, Mycroft swings it open and lets Sherlock pass through before closing it quietly behind them. </p>
<p class="p1">Scanning the hallway as they move forward, side by side, guns raised, they keep a quick, quiet step, not ready to alert anyone to their presence quite yet. As they approach the next corridor, Mycroft puts a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, gesturing for him to listen. He points out the pair of unhurried, careful footsteps echoing down the hall, coming towards them.</p>
<p class="p1">Hoping for the element of surprise, Mycroft presses himself to the wall, his back to the direction of the footsteps; Sherlock follows suit. As the sound approaches, a murmured conversation reaches their ears.</p>
<p class="p1">“Antares might be right, though. Why would the boss want to force them here? It’ll just bring trouble.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Honestly, I’m not sure. But he’s got to have a plan. Ok, quiet now. We are getting close. Don’t want to have our voices give them the drop on us.”</p>
<p class="p1">Oh. So they did know Mycroft and Sherlock were on the premises. They just didn’t know quite <em>how</em> close they were. Shooting a look at Sherlock, Mycroft offers a raised eyebrow and holsters his gun. Readying a knife for easy extraction, he checks for the zip ties. Confident they are within easy reach, Mycroft glances over to see Sherlock do the same. Stealth is their advantage now.</p>
<p class="p1">Closing his eyes, Mycroft takes a moment to control his breathing as he focuses intently on the sound of footsteps, calculating the distance to their owners. He looks over at Sherlock and mouths a countdown.</p>
<p class="p1">“Three, two, one.”</p>
<p class="p1">They leap into action, finding their targets just as they approach the junction. Taking in the shocked expressions, the off-balance stances, and the lowered guns, Mycroft is thankful to find it is Vega and Betelguese he is facing first. This’ll be a nice confidence builder.</p>
<p class="p1">Before the man in front of him has time to collect himself, Mycroft reaches out, grabbing hold of his gun arm. Using his momentum, he turns, sending an elbow into the face behind him. He pulls the man around and throws him against the wall. As he presses his forearm into the man’s throat, Mycroft slams his hand into the wall, weakening the grip on the gun. After a few quick hits, the gun drops, and Mycroft kicks it away down the hall, keeping a strong hold on the man. Cutting off the blood flow to his brain with his forearm, Mycroft watches carefully until the man passes out and the muscles go lax underneath his grip. He guides him to the ground, laying him on his side.</p>
<p class="p1">Mycroft turns from the man below him and sees Sherlock already binding the other man’s hands behind his back. The cut on the captive’s forehead darkening into a bruise shows Sherlock used the benefit of his long legs in the form of a swift kick during his fight.</p>
<p class="p1">Once Vega and Betelguese—Mycroft is still unsure of which name belongs to who—are securely tied, gagged, and positioned, they gather the discarded guns, and proceed in the direction the two came from. The thought of Gregory’s deep brown eyes pulls him forward.</p>
<p class="p1">~~~</p>
<p class="p1">Turning to look at John, Greg sees the dark glint in his eyes and knows to drop the subject of Antares. But he can’t help the concern for his friend welling up in his chest. Wishing they had found John sooner, Greg hopes his injuries are only the ones he can see, and nothing more.</p>
<p class="p1">Uncertain how much time they have before that damn door screeches open again, Greg looks over at John, watching him work out the loose hook. As he roots his friend on, John pulls himself up, over and over. Seeing the strain in his muscles and the grimaces flashing across his face, Greg worries. The swelling in his weak shoulder worsens before Greg’s eyes. He can tell this process is taking a major toll but doesn’t say anything, knowing this may be their only way out. Greg just plans on getting that man to hospital as soon as they can.</p>
<p class="p1">Centimeter by centimeter, the hook pulls out from the ceiling, raining down a constant flow of dust over John. It mixes with his sweat, forming a grimy layer across his hands, head, and the back of his neck as John hangs his head to keep it from getting into his eyes.</p>
<p class="p1">“Johnny, it’s almost there! Be ready to catch yourself in the next couple of pulls. And don’t let that chain hit you on the way down! You don’t need to add to those injuries.”</p>
<p class="p1">John responds with a huff and an eye roll that takes his whole head with it. “No kidding,” he grunts back.</p>
<p class="p1">Greg watches John steel himself for another round. Still holding to the chain around his wrists, John pulls himself up again, veins standing out on his biceps and forearms. With a few bracing breaths and a grunt at the exertion, he curls his knees into his chest as high as he can, pushing his limits after so many rounds and his injuries. Forming a tight ball, John closes his eyes and pushes his head back and behind his shoulders so the chain will fall in front of him instead of on him when it releases.</p>
<p class="p1">In amazement, Greg starts at the bursting energy of John throwing himself open and pulling all of his weight towards the ground, forcing the hook loose.</p>
<p class="p1">John catches himself in a crouch on the floor, arms straight out, guiding the chain as it clatters down around him.</p>
<p class="p1">Wanting to shout, Greg controls himself and instead yells in a whisper, “John! You did it! You did it, John!” He collapses back and catches his breath.</p>
<p class="p1">“Give me a second, and I’ll get you down.” After a few breaths, John disentangles himself from the chain, hands still handcuffed. He looks over at Greg.</p>
<p class="p1">“Fuck!” Running his hands through his hair, he starts pacing around the room. “I didn’t think about how I would get you down! We need the key or something to pick the lock.” Greg can’t quite catch what else John is muttering to himself, but he hears a couple of choice swears and the word ‘idiot’ several times. While John mutters obscenities to himself, his hands start gripping his hair in a hard pull. “Fuck!” Letting go, he kicks hard at the wall. “I should have thought about this. I’m such a fucking idiot!” He continues to pace around the room. “There’s got to be something. Something to help get you down.” </p>
<p class="p1">“John. Johnny. It’s ok. I’ve got this. It’ll be fine.” Knowing the cuffs are just loose enough on his wrists for this to work, Greg uses his right hand to push against the base of his thumb near the wrist. He feels John’s eyes turn towards him.</p>
<p class="p1">“No! Greggie, you can’t. If you do, all the ligaments in that thumb are going to be torn. That’s not something you can fix easily. You could permanently damage that hand.” John stands in front of him, flicking his eyes between Greg’s. “I can’t let you do this. We’ll find another way.”</p>
<p class="p1">Not allowing himself to be too optimistic, Greg nods. John goes back to looking around The Room for some way to get Greg down. When John is turned away, Greg mutters a “bollocks” to himself. He takes a deep breath, grits his teeth, and exerts enough force to dislocate his left thumb. Letting out an agonized groan, Greg positions his hand into as small a shape as possible, urging the now floating joint into the proper place to pull it through. Beads of sweat drip down his face and onto his neck from the pain. As he guides the cuff over his injured hand, he calls out for John.</p>
<p class="p1">“Greg! You fucking arsehole, I told you to wait.” Running back over, John supports him while he pulls the loose cuff through the loop of the chain, and settles his feet fully on the ground. “Now look what you’ve done.” Greg’s hand is already swelling, turning red and hot to the touch. “What happens if we have to fight our way out of here, huh? Did you think of that?”</p>
<p class="p1">With a shrug, Greg flashes a smile. It feels closer to a grimace. “I’m counting on you to be my knight in shining armor.” When John narrows his eyes in a stony glare, Greg replies seriously, “I can still fight like this. At least I won’t have to worry about my punching form as much since my thumb’s already dislocated.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Jesus, Greg.” John tugs at his hair again in frustration. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. You were already hurt enough. This wasn’t supposed to happen.” Gathering himself, he reaches for Greg’s injured hand. “Let me see what I can do.” Gently probing at the loose joint in assessment, John looks up when Greg gives a sharp hiss through his teeth. “Yeah. Of course, it hurts, dummy. It’s gonna hurt a lot more when I fix it, too. You ready?” Greg grits his teeth once again and nods. “Okay, on three, two, one.”</p>
<p class="p1">Greg hears and feels the joint pop back into place. Face contorting, a deep groan escapes his throat.</p>
<p class="p1">“Yeah, all right, you big baby. Give us a tic.” John gently lets Greg take his hand back while John pulls off his shirt and tears it into long strips around his cuffs, the fabric already frayed from where it had been cut. When John gestures for his hand again, Greg guides it back, supported by the wrist with his other hand. John deftly wraps the joint in a makeshift bandage to help support and protect the torn ligaments from further damage. Doing his best to keep a straight face, several winces pass over Greg’s features as certain movements aggravate it.</p>
<p class="p1">Once John is finished wrapping, Greg recognizes the change in pain levels. The burn is much more manageable, though definitely not a walk in the park.</p>
<p class="p1">Greg grips John’s good shoulder. “Johnny. First off, ta for that. It’s loads better. Second, we’re in this together. We share the load. You’re in a much worse position than I am right now.” John looks into his face. “A little pain to not waste more time is what needed to be done, so I did it. Don’t blame yourself for my decisions. Now let’s go.”</p>
<p class="p1">With a deep sigh, John nods. “Fine. Let’s get out of here. Thank God that bastard forgot to latch the door when he left.”</p>
<p class="p1">Smirking, Greg cradles his hand against his chest, keeping it above his heart to prevent excess swelling. They listen at the door, checking for any sounds of movement beyond.</p>
<p class="p1">Eyes wide, John stares at Greg and whispers, “Shit.” Greg closes his eyes. He hears it too. Of fucking course. Someone’s coming. Shaking his head, he gestures for John to ready himself. Might as well use the element of surprise to their advantage. They stand, backs against the wall, on the side where the door will swing open to cover them if someone enters. Breath bated, Greg strains his hearing for the footsteps—starting and stopping, starting and stopping—coming towards the door.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Chapter 15</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">Moving down the corridor, Sherlock controls his breathing and tries to ignore the ache in his side—the knife wound must have been aggravated during the fight. Maybe the kick to the head wasn’t the best choice. Chastising himself for not conserving energy, Sherlock observes the space around him.</p>
<p class="p1">It’s obvious these are the would-be office spaces of the abattoir. They are unlikely to be in use for any purpose currently, compared to the walk-in freezers with locks or the large slaughter rooms. Sherlock and Mycroft quickly and methodically check them for members of the team or any evidence. Moving on, they keep their steps silent, breaths even and controlled as they make their way forward. The further they travel into the building, the harder Sherlock’s heart pounds. The feeling in the air from when they first entered has not fully dissipated, and it lends a sense of disquieting discomfort to their movements. Sherlock feels muscles tighten all over his body, coiling tight like a loaded spring. He hasn’t felt this ragged, this detached, since he returned from dismantling Moriarty’s network.</p>
<p class="p1">John had seen to that. Kept him right. Helped his nightmares. Brought him back to reality with biting sarcasm, soft touches, and more love than Sherlock knows he is worth. Because of John’s stabilizing influence in his life, Sherlock needs him back, needs to bring him home. Even if it means packing up and moving out. John deserves everything good in life for rescuing Sherlock—who is no fool. He knows that doesn’t include him, his acerbic nature, his biohazard experiments, his lack of social graces. John deserves better, the best, that life can offer.</p>
<p class="p1">First, it is Sherlock’s turn to rescue him. After that, he will sort out the changes he needs to make to give John that best life.</p>
<p class="p1">Room after room reveals little to nothing until they reach a door leading into the back. Cautious, Sherlock repeats checks for unfriendly faces; Mycroft covers him, surprisingly competent for never doing his own ‘legwork’. Not that Sherlock would ever tell him that. Mycroft is big-headed enough already.</p>
<p class="p1">Making their way into the back rooms, Sherlock hears a clatter down the hall, followed by heavy silence. The brothers freeze, ready for action. When nothing happens, Sherlock looks over at Mycroft with a small shrug. Mycroft nods and focuses his attention ahead again, moving down the hall.</p>
<p class="p1">Through the first door, they find a freezer. There are signs of frequent use on the door, yet the cooling system does not appear to be running. When Sherlock flips the lock and pushes it open, he is accosted by a smell that hits him like a putrid wave. He turns his head away for a brief breath of fresh air before steeling himself and stepping inside. There are mats on the floor, what look like blood and vomit stains, and buckets in the corners. It’s clear to Sherlock that this is where John and Lestrade were held until recently.</p>
<p class="p1">The apprehension in Sherlock’s body is replaced with anger, with rage. He can feel the blood pumping into his quaking muscles, fuel and fire, eager to consume him. Video evidence of John’s situation is one thing, seeing it written on the surfaces of this room is another entirely.</p>
<p class="p1">Already calculating the best ways to make them suffer, Sherlock turns and watches Mycroft come to the same conclusion. The color drains from his brother’s face, eyes growing dark and hard. He looks at Sherlock and the same heat Sherlock feels in his own body radiates from Mycroft’s gaze.</p>
<p class="p1">“They’ll pay for this,” he promises, “I swear it, Sherlock. They’ll pay for this.” Mycroft’s voice, full of emotion—fear, rage, concern—comes out in a hissing whisper. Mirroring the sentiment with a grim smile, Sherlock nods, and they head back out the door.</p>
<p class="p1">They continue on their methodical path, checking the other doors they come across for signs of enemies or their missing partners. When they reach one with a bolt across the front, unlatched, Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat. One or more of their targets must be inside. Pulling out his gun, he glances back to Mycroft. Mycroft unsheathes his knife, grabs the door handle with his free hand, and counts down for Sherlock. Anticipation runs through Sherlock’s body, tactics spiraling through his mind. He walls off his heart, protecting John and himself from what he knows he must do, what he needs to become. He must become the Sherlock from before. The machine, fuelled by precision, a tool of searing decimation.</p>
<p class="p1">Just as he reaches three, Mycroft pushes forward, the door opening with a terrible screeching sound. Sherlock dives inside, checking the room. When he turns to face Mycroft, the door slams shut behind them and Sherlock freezes. The world tilts, drowning him with a feeling like the walls are crashing down around him. Unable to catch his breath, Sherlock lowers the nose of his gun to the floor, vision consumed with the sight before him, the only thing that matters.</p>
<p class="p1">“John.”</p>
<p class="p1">~~~</p>
<p class="p1">Standing next to Greg, John knows they may have to fight their way out of this despite the aching, stabbing pains racking through his body. If there is an opening for Greg to escape—even if it means John won’t—he is going to make sure it happens. It’s their best chance of at least one of them surviving. Greg could make it out and bring help if John is still alive to receive it. With the state of his body, he won't make it far and will likely be recaptured by those bastards, leaving both of them out of luck.</p>
<p class="p1">When John hears footsteps stop by the door, he closes his eyes, breathes in, and pushes the pain aside. This time, he is ready.</p>
<p class="p1">The door screeches open, and he and Greg hold their positions, waiting for the door to reveal them. When it does, John glimpses the man before him. He is tall, thin, wearing tactical gear and holding a gun, a familiar lock of hair curling at the nape of his neck.</p>
<p class="p1">
  <em>Sherlock. </em>
</p>
<p class="p1">The name rings in his head when Sherlock turns to face him. Finding his eyes, those beautiful eyes locking onto his, John hears his own name on Sherlock’s lips. Gaze glued to the man before him, John drops his defensive position, falling back against the wall before sliding down to the floor.</p>
<p class="p1">
  <em>Sherlock. </em>
</p>
<p class="p1">John leans his head back, looking up at the ceiling and letting his eyes shut, hardly daring to trust what he is seeing, to accept what he has been hoping for since the beginning of this madness. He feels the delicate touch of long, slender fingers dancing across his face, his neck, his chest, his shoulders, his arms. All his injuries, cataloged. John breathes. Relief floods his system and threatens to pour out over his cheeks. With difficulty, he reminds himself that now is not the time for emotions. First, they have to get out.</p>
<p class="p1">“John.” The sound of his name on Sherlock’s lips again. The sound of spring, honey spread on toast, fire crackling, wind rustling. Mrs. Hudson’s hoovering and bubbling experiments. All of the sounds of home wrapped up in the most beautiful voice, saying his name.</p>
<p class="p1">“John. John, please.” A hand cups John’s cheek. “Look at me.” Fingers brush back the hair on his forehead. “Tell me you’re able to move. I need you to be alright, John.” He hears the catch in Sherlock’s voice, the break of emotion pouring through.</p>
<p class="p1">Lifting his head again, John urges his eyes to open. When they finally do, his vision is filled with the most beautiful sight he has ever seen: Sherlock’s face inches from his, eyes boring into him, reading everything he’s been through. John can’t help but let a few tears of relief, of release, track down from the corners of his eyes. Gentle thumbs carefully wipe them away.</p>
<p class="p1">“John.”</p>
<p class="p1">Finding his voice, croaking and dry, John finally responds with one word, “Sherlock.” Matching tears fall down Sherlock’s cheeks even as a tentative yet genuine smile creeps onto his face.</p>
<p class="p1">A hand comes down on Sherlock’s shoulder, drawing John’s gaze. Mycroft squats down next to Sherlock, Greg standing just behind.</p>
<p class="p1">“John. Can you stand? Can you walk?”</p>
<p class="p1">Nodding, John begins to shift himself around to stand, the handcuffs making anything more than a kneeling position impossible.</p>
<p class="p1">“What now?” he asks. He is looking only at Sherlock, not yet ready to have him out of his sight. Seeing the tightness around his eyes and the firm set of his mouth, John knows Sherlock is about to say something he won’t like. “What now?” A growl slips through as he asks again.</p>
<p class="p1">Keeping his gaze steady, Sherlock responds, “Mycroft will escort you and Lestrade out, and you’ll both be taken to the hospital. Ambulances are waiting. I will track down the rest of the group and hold them until backup arrives.”</p>
<p class="p1">Betrayal, hurt, and anger swirl through John’s chest. The bastard is going to try to face this group on his own and abandon him, alone.</p>
<p class="p1">“No. No, Sherlock. That’s not what is happening.” Looking at Mycroft, John continues, “You approved this shitshow of a plan? Well, it’s not happening.” John gestures to Greg. “Listen here. New fucking plan, and tell anybody who needs to hear about this what it is. Greggie and I will be coming with <em>both </em>of you dimwits to track down the rest of the group. Then, together, we will all go to the hospital. I know three of us here will be needing one.” John catches Sherlock’s glare at that comment and carries on, “It won’t surprise me if Mycroft won’t let Greg out of his sight. So it’s together, or not at all.” Pointing to each one of them individually with his cuffed hands, he adds, “Got it?”</p>
<p class="p1">Greg and Mycroft solemnly nod in response. Sherlock looks about to argue, bites his lip, and then, casting his eyes to the ground, nods.</p>
<p class="p1">“Right.” John nods as well. “Now that’s settled, give us some weapons. And if you have keys or a lock pick on you, that wouldn’t go amiss.”</p>
<p class="p1">Both Sherlock and Mycroft reach for their pockets and turn to John and Greg respectively. When Sherlock moves forward, John stares intently at his face, trying to catch his eye. Sherlock avoids his gaze. Letting out a deep breath and wincing as it pushes against his bruised and cracked ribs, John offers his hands to Sherlock, who unlocks the cuffs without a word.</p>
<p class="p1">When his hands are free, even before rubbing the pain out and the blood flow back in, John reaches up to cup Sherlock’s cheeks. Sherlock flinches at the touch before leaning into it, nuzzling against John’s palm. Lifting Sherlock’s face to look into his eyes, John steps closer, knowing the angle will make his shoulder ache. He runs his thumbs over the sharp cheekbones and whispers, “God, I missed you. So much.”</p>
<p class="p1">Sherlock gives a half-smile at that. “John.” The pain, the apology, the fear, the love are evident in just that one word. John lets his hands fall to Sherlock’s waist and leans his head against his chest. A gentle hand rests on the nape of his neck, another on the small of his back.</p>
<p class="p1">“Let’s go home, Sherlock. I want to go home.” John’s words are muffled in the body armor Sherlock is wearing.</p>
<p class="p1">“Alright.” The warm hands fall away.</p>
<p class="p1">Stepping back, John takes the gun he offers, watching Sherlock pull out a knife for himself. When John quirks an eyebrow, Sherlock explains.</p>
<p class="p1">“You’re the better shot if we need it. Though, we have been trying to avoid that as much as possible. The sound is a risk.”</p>
<p class="p1">Already, John is looking over the gun and checking the mag. “You may be right, but is my right-handed shot still better than yours? I don’t think I will be able to fire normally, and with my eye-sight...”</p>
<p class="p1">Sherlock’s gaze flits to John’s scar, red and swollen enough to hinder range of motion, and to his eye, swollen shut from the broken bone beneath it. “No, you aren’t. But I’d rather you have it than not. With any luck, you won’t have to use it at all.”</p>
<p class="p1">Surveying their motley crew, John notices that Mycroft fitted Greg with a gun as well. “So,” he draws the attention of the group, “how many do we still have to deal with?”</p>
<p class="p1">Mycroft responds, “Five. Vega and Betelguese are tied up in the front hallway. Antares, Pollux, Sirius, Polaris, and Cassiopeia are somewhere in the building. That’s all we know at the moment.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Cassiopeia?” Greg cuts in. “We’ve heard all the other names, but who is Cassiopeia?”</p>
<p class="p1">This time, Sherlock answers, his face grim. “They are the real brains behind the operation. In control of the tech and the decisions. Sirius is just the figurehead and the funds. Cassiopeia is the one we need if we want to bring down this whole operation. Along with Polaris, the surgeon.”</p>
<p class="p1">The screech of the door halts the conversation as the sound draws their attention.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Chapter 16</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">Before anyone has a chance to react, two men rush through the door. One of them—Greg assumes Pollux—catches him by the wrists, gun forced overhead, pushing him back toward the wall. Greg’s body slams into it, stealing the breath from his lungs and making his broken ribs ache. With a grimace, he tries to throw a knee between the man’s legs. Pollux anticipates and ducks the move, slamming Greg’s hand repeatedly against the wall. Losing his grip, Greg drops the gun to the floor, and Pollux kicks it away.</p>
<p class="p1">A forearm pushes against Greg’s throat, cutting off his air. Eyes closed, he struggles until he feels a small reprieve. His eyes flash open. Mycroft has a knife to Pollux’s throat, pulling him back and off Greg, giving him the chance to find his breath again. Pollux falls back, stomping down on Mycroft’s foot and forcing him off balance before they both collapse to the floor.</p>
<p class="p1">Using his weight and the momentum of the fall to his advantage, Pollux rolls over Mycroft’s head, out of his grip. Landing in a crouch, he pulls a knife from his hip, ready for the next move. Mycroft rolls and regains his feet but comes up empty-handed, his knife lost in the fall.</p>
<p class="p1">Greg’s eyes dart around the room, taking in the scene. John and Sherlock are in a similar position with Antares, gun and knife both discarded and out of reach. Scanning, he finds what he is looking for.</p>
<p class="p1">The gun.</p>
<p class="p1">While Pollux is occupied with Mycroft, Greg dives for the weapon. The movement catches Pollux’s attention, and he lunges forward to grab Greg’s legs. Unable to catch himself, sparing his injured hand, Greg hits the ground hard. Ribs and head protesting the impact, Greg realizes the gun is still out of reach. He feels pressure on the inside of his knee, pushing out and threatening dislocation.</p>
<p class="p1">Mycroft punches Pollux across the temple, the attack allowing Greg to get his legs out from under his attacker’s weight. Grabbing the gun, he turns onto his back and finds Mycroft and Pollux grappling with each other in a rolling heap, preventing a clear shot. Struggling to his feet, Greg makes eye contact with Mycroft. With a nod, Mycroft wrestles Pollux into position, andGreg swings down the butt of the gun, hard, on his head.</p>
<p class="p1">Pollux falls limp.</p>
<p class="p1">As Mycroft fumbles with the zip ties, breathing heavily, Greg looks over at John and Sherlock, hopeful that he will see Antares reduced to a still heap. Instead, the breath rushes from his lungs, and the air turns sour.</p>
<p class="p1">Before his horrified eyes, Greg watches John take a knife to the stomach as Sherlock fires the gun from his position on the ground.</p>
<p class="p1">The shot rings out, mixing with Greg’s cry.</p>
<p class="p1">~~~</p>
<p class="p1">The door opens, and Antares rushes for John. He clearly already knows all of John’s weak points, having put most of them there himself. He grabs John by the arm holding the gun and swings him around into Sherlock, knocking him to the ground. Wrenching John’s wrist and pulling at his hand, Antares forces John to drop the gun, kicking it away. He twists John’s right arm around his back, fingers digging into the swollen scar tissue of John’s left shoulder. The threat of dislocation stops John’s desperate struggling.</p>
<p class="p1">Facing Sherlock where the detective is crouched on the floor, knife in hand, John sees Mycroft rushing to help Greg. Hot breath ghosts across John's neck as Antares whispers in his ear, “This your husband, then? The great Sherlock Holmes? Are you ready for him to watch, hmm?” The fingers dig in deeper, making John’s knee buckle and his face contort as he cries out from the pain.</p>
<p class="p1">“Drop it. Slide it over to me.” Antares’ orders, nodding to Sherlock.</p>
<p class="p1">John hears metal clatter to the floor and slide as Sherlock follows Antares’ orders. Desperately, John hopes Sherlock has a plan.</p>
<p class="p1">“Let him go.” The threat in Sherlock’s deep voice rings through John’s ears.</p>
<p class="p1">When Antares chuckles, John feels the vibrations against his back. “I don’t think so. You see, I like him. I think I’ll just keep him.” The pressure on his shoulder and arm change as Antares starts leading them backward. “I think he’s my ticket out of here. Why would I give him up?”</p>
<p class="p1">Opening his eyes, John finds Sherlock’s, the silent question loud between them, reflected in Sherlock’s face. John gives an almost imperceptible nod in response, and Sherlock responds out loud to Antares, “Because that would be the biggest mistake you’ve ever made: underestimating John Watson-Holmes.” With one last look toward John, he adds, “Vatican Cameos.”</p>
<p class="p1">John springs into action as Sherlock leaps for the gun behind Antares. Stomping on his foot and throwing an elbow to his face, John maneuvers out of Antares’ hold. When he turns to face him, Antares drops to the ground and aims a sweeping kick at Sherlock. It sends him flying to land in a heap on his side.</p>
<p class="p1">His attention on Sherlock, John misses it as Antares stands, knife in hand. When John refocuses, Antares is already in front of him, wrenching his aching arm above his head. Crowding him against the wall, Antares leans in and says, “Maybe I did underestimate you, and maybe I didn’t. But either way, you’ll look much prettier with my scar across your belly.”</p>
<p class="p1">John feels the pain of the knife entering him, white hot across his abdomen.</p>
<p class="p1">The sound of the gun and Greg’s voice calling his name intermix, ringing in his ears and fading into the distance as the world goes black.</p>
<p class="p1">———</p>
<p class="p1">When he comes to, there are three blurry figures above him and a heavy weight pressing on the agony spreading across his middle. John tries to swat it away, and the muffled voices above go quiet.</p>
<p class="p1">“John? John, can you hear me?” The speaker is a man with grey hair. In John’s doubled vision, he looks like he has two heads.</p>
<p class="p1">When John tries to talk, only a cough comes out at first and then, “Greggie.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh, thank God, you bastard!” Greg exclaims. “We thought we lost you. You didn’t have the energy to lose that much blood, or to add another injury on top of all your other ones.” Running his hand over his face, Greg continues, “You’re a fucking right prick, you are. Getting us all worried over nothing.” He tries to crack a smile, but it is strained and radiates concern.</p>
<p class="p1">Controlling his breathing, John asks, “Did...did someone pull out the knife? Please say no.”</p>
<p class="p1">Finally, Sherlock speaks, flat and avoidant. “It was pulled out as Antares fell. I apologize.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Damn it.” John lets his eyes fall closed. The doctor-voice in his head reminds him of the increased risk of bleeding out with the removal of the weapon, but it cannot be helped, and he pushes it away. “Well, let’s get on with it then. I can tell you’ve got pressure on it, but you’re making it hard for me to breathe. I’ve got some broken ribs, and it feels like you are trying to puncture my lung with them. You got anything in that suit of yours?” John adds his hand to the two already keeping pressure and readjusts Sherlock’s placement. </p>
<p class="p1">Mycroft clears his throat. Opening his eyes, John sees him pulling something out of a pocket in his utility belt. A syringe. John breathes a sigh of relief. The cellulose sponges are exactly what he is hoping for.</p>
<p class="p1">“Yes. Perfect. Sherlock, let me see. I need to know how well this will work.” Quickly palpating around, John determines the depth and width of the wound are not as bad as they feel. “Alright. Yeah. Let’s do this.”</p>
<p class="p1">Leaning forward, Mycroft inserts the syringe and depresses the plunger. The sponges expand, rapidly filling the area, everyone watching as the pouring blood slows first to a trickle, then stops.</p>
<p class="p1">“Ok,” John pauses, breathing through the pain. “Now, Greggie, I know you know where I left the rest of my shirt. Go get it, please.” When Greg returns with the torn shirt, he offers it to Sherlock. Grimacing, John nods. “Great. Help me sit up. Tie that around my waist.”</p>
<p class="p1">Sherlock searches John’s eyes for a second before all six hands are helping John off his back. In no time, Sherlock has the shirt securely tied over John’s wound with enough pressure to help staunch the bleeding.</p>
<p class="p1">With a smirk at Sherlock, John says, “And you thought <em>yours</em> was bad. You were completely delirious. Now, I know that was all because of your lack of care.” With a deep breath, he adds, “You couldn’t even talk without panting like a dog.”</p>
<p class="p1">In response to John’s teasing, Sherlock smiles. “Well, never let it be said I married someone weaker than myself.” He brushes hair away from John’s forehead. “Let’s get you out of here.” </p>
<p class="p1">~~~</p>
<p class="p1">Watching Sherlock stand, Mycroft catches the pain that flashes across his face, the twitch of fingers reaching for his side. He wonders how Sherlock’s own knife wound is fairing with the level of abuse he’s put it through. Planning to keep an eye on it, Mycroft pretends to not notice for now, in case John puts up more of a fight about the situation than he already is. <em>Christ</em>, he thinks. <em>Those two may be annoyingly stubborn, but, by God, how they care for each other. </em></p>
<p class="p1">Slight pressure on Mycroft’s shoulder alerts him to Gregory leaning against him. He shifts his weight to take on more of Gregory’s, knowing the other man is exhausted, injured, and in need of some comfort.</p>
<p class="p1">“You know, Antares had a thing for John,” Gregory says, voice soft. “Johnny used that knowledge to protect me. Made sure to draw his attention.” He falls silent.</p>
<p class="p1">With a deep breath, Mycroft responds, “He did that because he wanted to, because he cares for you. Don’t put the blame on yourself.” His tone lowers, softening. “Antares is the one to blame. Just as you told me before, it’s no one’s fault but theirs.” Reaching down to carefully raise Gregory’s injured hand, he continues, “You both have been through a lot these past few days. You took the action you thought best. You <em>survived.</em>” He gently rubs the covered knuckles with his thumb.</p>
<p class="p1">Gregory’s weight shifts, and he moves to stand in front of Mycroft, letting his hand be held. “Hey. Hey, My. I know that look.” Gregory’s face is achingly kind. “Don’t blame yourself for not getting here in time. You just said not to blame anyone but the bastards. And John fixed me up. It’ll be fine.”</p>
<p class="p1">“I know. I do. But Gregory,” Mycroft looks into brown eyes, full of concern for him, “I could have lost you.” Those last words scratch hard in his throat as they fight their way out. Mycroft glances at John and Sherlock before dropping Gregory’s hand. “I look at them and wonder at how lucky they are to have found each other, to work together.” He looks back to Gregory, adding, “As maudlin as it may be, sometimes I wish that things could be different between us.”</p>
<p class="p1">Before Gregory can respond, Sherlock’s voice breaks into their conversation. “Now that the good doctor has proved he can stand, we should get moving. The gunshot will have alerted the rest of them, and they will be attempting their escape.”</p>
<p class="p1">“What do you suggest, brother mine?” Mycroft asks, turning to Sherlock. “John must be escorted to the ambulance immediately. And you and I have a mission to complete.”</p>
<p class="p1">Chin jutting out, Sherlock replies, “I’ll be taking John, and Lestrade, too, if you think he might be more of a hindrance than an asset.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Wait,” John cuts in. “Wait a moment. No. You will not give up this case now. Not for me. Have Greg escort me, and you two go find Cassiopeia.”</p>
<p class="p1">Mycroft watches Sherlock try to process the information. The excessive blinking and the slight tilt of his head gives away his shock at John’s statement. Then, he explodes.</p>
<p class="p1">“John, for God’s sake, which is it?! ‘Together or not at all’ or ‘you can’t give up the case’?” His voice goes high with frustration and stress, Sherlock’s hands shaking with the force of the emotions he usually suppresses. “I almost lost you! Even knowing you plan to pack up and leave when we get home, at least I’ll know you are alive and well. That’s all I need. I know that now. But you can’t think, for possibly one second, that this case matters more to me than you. Mycroft—God help me for saying this—can handle it. But I don’t trust anyone else to handle you. Not now. Not ever.”</p>
<p class="p1">Everyone stares at Sherlock when he finishes, tension and the following silence heavy in the space.</p>
<p class="p1">John chuckles darkly, shaking his head. When he speaks, it is with the authority of a military captain. “You right bloody <em>bastard.</em> We don’t have enough time to go into how wrong most of that statement is. But here’s the deal. You and Mycroft are going to go finish the mission. And don’t you fight me on this,” he adds, glaring when Sherlock opens his mouth to protest. “Greg will take me out, and we will wait. We will wait until you and Mycroft return and ride to the hospital together. I can tell you’ve pulled your stitches.”</p>
<p class="p1">Gregory mutters, “Again.”</p>
<p class="p1">Mycroft covers his face when John glances in their direction before turning back to Sherlock. “I’m finding out more about that later. Mark my words, Sherlock Watson-Holmes. <em>Mark. My. Words.”</em></p>
<p class="p1">Dropping his hands, Mycroft catches Sherlock’s sheepish nod. “It’s decided, then,” Mycroft says, interrupting the moment. “Gregory, take John. Follow the corridor to the back door. Walk through the office space until you come to another hallway, then take that through the delivery bay. I’ll have my men waiting for you outside.” As Gregory moves into position, wrapping his good hand around John’s waist, Mycroft moves by Sherlock and says in a low voice, “They’ll be fine. He’ll be fine, Sherlock. Let’s find our men and get out of here.”</p>
<p class="p1">With a nod between the four of them, the two groups move out in opposite directions.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Chapter 17</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">As they move deeper into the building, Sherlock senses a shift in the air, turning it stale, and in the sound of their footsteps, sounding hollow.</p><p class="p1">Something isn’t right.</p><p class="p1">He pauses, sniffing, trying to identify a reason for the change. Mycroft notices Sherlock’s behavior and slows, allowing him the space to work. Bending to place an ear to the ground, Sherlock begins tapping his knuckles on the floor, testing for differences in pitch and for echos. When he finds what he is looking for, he looks up at Mycroft with a smirk. “They’ve built a hidden basement. Neat.”</p><p class="p1">Mycroft’s eyes widen, recognition dawning. “That must be where the records and their books are stored. They would have to keep track of that information somehow.”</p><p class="p1">“Precisely.” Standing, a finger tapping against his lip, Sherlock frowns. “I haven’t noticed any other spaces with similar sounds, so it’s unlikely the entry point was on our previous path.”</p><p class="p1">“We must be coming up to it.”</p><p class="p1">Raising his gun back to position, Sherlock steps further down the hall. “Then let’s find it.”</p><p class="p1">~~~</p><p class="p1">Their pace is slow, Greg pausing every few meters to let John catch his breath. Face grim, he realizes it will take ages to get out at this rate. After the fourth pause, Greg finally speaks up.</p><p class="p1">“I know you’re strong, Johnny,” he starts cautiously. “And you know I am, too. Let me get us out of here. It’ll be faster.” Chancing a glance at John’s face and seeing it pale under the harsh lights, Greg pushes again. “You can holler at me all you want once you’re better. But let me do this. I’ve got to do this.”</p><p class="p1">John lets out a deep sigh and nods, just once. “Fine, you’re right. But no fireman or threshold carries. It won’t help my body any.” In a mutter, he adds, “Let alone my pride.”</p><p class="p1">Placing himself in front of John, Greg squats down. “Ok. Get on my back, then?” He can feel John’s eye-roll in response.</p><p class="p1">Greg catches John’s “I’ll never live this down” as he clambers onto Greg’s back, careful of the wound in his stomach. Hooking his forearms underneath John’s knees, he hoists them over his hips and stands.</p><p class="p1">“Comfy?” Greg can’t help the smirk on his face before he feels a heavy weight land on his shoulder.</p><p class="p1">“Thanks, Greggie. Sorry for slowing us down.” John’s soft words are almost lost in the fabric of his shirt.</p><p class="p1">Greg’s face falls, almost feeling the energy seeping out of John, his body growing heavier against him by the second.</p><p class="p1">“It’s my honor,” he breathes, and they resume their long walk to safety.</p><p class="p1">~~~</p><p class="p1">Turning a corner, Sherlock and Mycroft come to a sudden and unexpected dead end. With a raised eyebrow, Mycroft shoots Sherlock a glance before lowering his gun and pressing an ear to the wall, tapping.</p><p class="p1">“Hollow.”</p><p class="p1">The brothers run their hands and eyes over the wall, feeling for seams where there shouldn’t be any. When none are found, Sherlock steps back and studies the area.</p><p class="p1">“It must be pressure sensitive. Look at the ceiling and the corners. The whole thing must slide on a mechanism.” He steps forward, staring at the ground. “We just have to find the...ah!” He points to a tile, slightly more discolored and raised than the ones around it. “This one seems to receive a lot of foot traffic.” The detective steps onto it, and the tile settles more fully into the floor.</p><p class="p1">With a click, the wall begins to slide along a track in the floor, revealing a staircase leading downward.</p><p class="p1">Trying to hide how impressed he truly is,Mycroft raises an eyebrow at the smirk on Sherlock’s face. “This is an investigation and subsequent arrest of black-market organ harvesters, brother mine. <em>Not</em> a treasure hunt.”</p><p class="p1">The smile falls from Sherlock’s face, replaced by an eye-roll. “Oh, piss off, Mycroft.” With his gun back in position, he heads down the stairs, descending into the dim light below. Shaking his head, hoping he won’t have to explain Sherlock’s idiot enthusiasm to John later if they don’t both make it back, Mycroft follows.</p><p class="p1">~~~</p><p class="p1">John begins to feel lightheaded and sinks his body further into the support of Greg’s back. The world wavers and rocks in an uncomfortable way, making him nauseated. Greg’s breathing grows louder, heavier, and John worries about the injuries he must be ignoring to carry John as he is.</p><p class="p1">They enter the office hallway and come across the bodies of Vega and Betelguese, still tied up and knocked out. Stepping around them, his balance haphazard, Greg attempts to walk a straight line ahead, heading down the hall and to the door leading to the delivery bay. At the doorway, Greg slumps against the wall, arms loosening from around John’s legs. Between huffs of breath, he says, “Johnny. I’m sorry. If I keep going, I’m going to drop you.” John slides off his back and down the wall.</p><p class="p1">Slurring his words, John responds, “It’s okay. It’s okay. Don’t worry ‘bout me, Greggie.” With a vague gesture of his hand, he waves at the door. “Go. Bring ‘em in here. I’ll just stay right here. I’ll be fine.” His head lolls to the side.</p><p class="p1">Greg looks from him to the door and back again, clearly deliberating. Glancing down at John’s wound, the blood seeping onto the shirt, he nods. “I’ll be right back, Johnny. I swear. Right back.” With a hand clutched to his aching ribs, he stands and walks through the door.</p><p class="p1">“He’ll be right back,” John mutters to himself, fighting the darkness threatening to close in for the second time.</p><p class="p1">~~~</p><p class="p1">Sherlock places each step with care as they travel deeper into the basement. Heart pounding in his chest, hair raised on the back of his neck, and breathing forcefully controlled, he keeps all his senses on high alert. Mycroft’s presence is tangible behind him, his brother watching their backs as they move forward.</p><p class="p1">Coming to the last step, Sherlock presses himself against the wall as he listens around the corner to the room beyond. Murmuring voices, paper shredding, fingers tapping keys, and computerized beeping reach his ears. He casts a questioning look at Mycroft, hoping he can confirm his thoughts. When he gets a nod in return, Sherlock concludes the feminine voices on the other side of the room must belong to Polaris and Cassiopeia. Interesting, though not unexpected.</p><p class="p1">Gambling on the likelihood that the two women wouldn’t leave themselves without an escape plan, Sherlock predicts three probable scenarios.</p><p class="p1">One, there is a second way out. Two, there will be mutually assured destruction. Three, maybe he and Mycroft can make or accept an offer for surrender or freedom. With the amount of evidence clearly being destroyed, either one or two seems the most likely. Mycroft seems to come to the same conclusion, shooting a pointed look at Sherlock. For once, he is almost grateful for his brother and this evidence of their shared wavelength.</p><p class="p1">Holding up a hand in Mycroft’s line of sight, Sherlock counts down, fingers folding toward his palm with each ticking second. When he reaches three, they step around the corner with their guns drawn. The flurry of activity continues as they move further into the room, making use of their target’s distraction to close the distance without notice.</p><p class="p1">~~~</p><p class="p1">His breathing labored, Greg stumbles into the delivery bay. With a cursory glance around the fairly empty space, he heads to the far door. Before he is even a quarter of the way through the room, a man steps out from behind one of the shelving units, a gun held in one hand. He is unfamiliar but his eyes light up with recognition at the sight of Greg. “Well, hello, Detective Inspector. I was so hoping to see you again.”</p><p class="p1">Greg freezes and slowly raises his hands in the air, brow furrowing. He notices the stranger is wired with a body-cam, likely sending live video somewhere, and his breath catches with understanding. The man smiles.</p><p class="p1">“Ah, good. I wasn’t sure you would know who I am but I think you have an idea.” His smile widens, a sly smirk. “Mister Sirius Smith. So pleased to finally meet you face-to-face, Gregory Lestrade.”</p><p class="p1">Jaw tight, Greg tries to fight back the despair washing over him. All their work, for nothing. So near escape, just to be dragged back into the belly of the beast. Back to being fucking hostages.</p><p class="p1">Sirius walks towards him, Greg still standing stiff and rigid in place. “Now, why don’t we take a little walk back to your friend and see how he is doing.” He stops an arm’s length away and his face hardens, the smile falling away. “Turn around, hands behind your back.”</p><p class="p1">Greg does as he is told, rough hands restraining him, forcing him in an uncoordinated march back to where he left John. Gritting his teeth, Greg wishes he had taken even just one of the weapons from Mycroft before they separated. When the door opens, he sees John blink at him before confusion filters into dawning recognition, and John leans his head back against the wall with a groan.</p><p class="p1">“He’s going to die if you don’t let us go,” Greg warns. Sirius’ only response is a low chuckle and a shove that sends Greg to his knees on the ground beside John. Slumping against the wall, he considers their options and wonders how much time they have while, beside him, John is fading fast.</p><p class="p1">~~~</p><p class="p1">Mycroft steps up behind Polaris as Sherlock positions himself behind Cassiopeia. Cocking his gun, Mycroft says, “I’d stop if I were you.” Both women freeze. They share a glance before slowly turning to face them, Polaris with a slow smile sneaking across her face. When she speaks, her voice is warm and falsely friendly. “I’m not so sure of that.”</p><p class="p1">In front of Sherlock, Cassiopeia types quickly, bringing up the video feed on her computer. The image is gritty at first but focuses, showing John and Gregory on the screen. Swallowing back his sudden panic, Mycroft breathes slowly.</p><p class="p1">So. <em>This</em> is the escape plan.</p><p class="p1">Turning to lean back against the desk, Cassiopeia gives them an ultimatum. “Call off your dogs, let us go, and your boys will survive.” With a quick look at the screen, she pouts her lower lip. “I’d do it quickly, too.” She turns her gaze to Sherlock, eyes glinting with dark amusement. “Your little soldier isn’t looking too good, is he?”</p><p class="p1">Mycroft watches the blood drain from Sherlock’s face, even as the rest of his features stay perfectly calm. Except for his eyes. Mycroft sees the storm brewing there, begging to be released.</p><p class="p1">Thank God for contingency plans.</p><p class="p1">Hiding his movements, Mycroft presses three short, three long, and another three short taps to the crown of his watch: <em>SOS. </em></p><p class="p1">The radio in his ear comes to life with a buzz of static, Scotty’s voice clear and direct. “Heard you loud and clear, sir.”</p><p class="p1">~~~</p><p class="p1">John hears a noise coming from behind the closed door, one he recognizes but can’t quite place, his mind not fully cognizant. Then Greg shifts abruptly by him, and Sirius is falling to the ground. The gun in his hand goes flying before the door swings open, and a group of heavily weaponized and armored people pour into the hallway.</p><p class="p1">Mycroft’s crew.</p><p class="p1">Breathing out a sigh of relief, John slumps against Greg. “We made it,” he breathes. Hands wrap under his arms and around his legs, picking him up and carrying him out. Passing through the last room and into the outdoors, John closes his eyes against the harsh sunlight and the feeling of crisp air against his skin. He smiles. It has been days since he felt fresh air on his face and realizes he has missed it like a physical presence.</p><p class="p1">Once he is placed on a gurney, Mycroft’s people wheel him toward an ambulance. The paramedics start their assessment, prepping him for transport and asking him questions John can’t seem to answer. All he can mutter is “I promised we wouldn’t leave without him.”</p><p class="p1">Greg bustles his way over to explain the situation before telling them to take John, not to wait. Hearing this, John tries to sit up, tries to push against the hands holding him down, tries to make them understand. He needs Sherlock. He won’t leave without Sherlock.</p><p class="p1">There is a sudden prick in his arm, and he feels something cold run into his veins. The last thought John has before the world turns black is, “Oh, not again.”</p><p class="p1">~~~</p><p class="p1">“You might want to look at your screen,” Sherlock says, with a curl of his lip.</p><p class="p1">Cassiopeia and Polaris both glance at the monitor out of the corner of their eyes. Gasping, they watch as Greg sweeps Sirius's legs out from under him. The camera view goes crashing sideways with him. Seconds later, a storm of feet fills the image. The camera view is righted, and it shakily moves through the door to the delivery bay.</p><p class="p1">“I’d say you need better men, but from my understanding, you won’t be needing them for quite a long time.” Sherlock gestures with his gun to the two of them. “Now. Arms above your heads and turn around.”</p><p class="p1">They acquiesce, and the brothers zip tie their wrists together behind their backs. Once they are subdued, Mycroft calls in their location and the locations of the rest of the crew, including the need for a med team for Antares.</p><p class="p1">While Mycroft talks, keeping the women in the sights of his gun, Sherlock begins to peruse the files they had been in the process of destroying. Names, dates, accounts, receipts. Everything is there. Even with the amount already destroyed, there is enough here to put those involved in the operation away for a long while. A name catches his attention, one he thought long gone. Shivers run down Sherlock’s spine, and he turns to Cassiopeia. Pushing her up against the wall, he places a gun against her temple. “Who is your boss?”</p><p class="p1">She stares at him with wide eyes. “I...I haven’t heard from him in...in years.”</p><p class="p1">“Who. Is. Your. <em>Boss?”</em> Sherlock asks again, pressing her harder into the wall.</p><p class="p1">Mycroft’s sharp voice cuts through the haze of shocked fury washing red over his vision. “Sherlock. Stop. You know that name is no more.”</p><p class="p1">Cassiopeia’s wide, green eyes flit between them, fixing back on Sherlock’s. “He’s right. I...I heard he was killed sev—several years ago.”</p><p class="p1">“Say it,” Sherlock snarls, pressing the gun into the skin of her temple. “Say his name.”</p><p class="p1">“Moriarty.”</p><p class="p1">Footsteps echo on the stairs, and Sherlock steps back from Cassiopeia, letting her sag against the wall, the muzzle of the gun indented on her skin. The women are taken from the room by Mycroft’s men, efficient and professional.</p><p class="p1">Standing in a corner, Sherlock watches the team collect crucial evidence under Mycroft’s direction. When the room is clear, Mycroft breaks into Sherlock’s reverie.</p><p class="p1">“You should be there when he gets out of surgery. I’m told he was quite adamant about you being there. You won’t want to disappoint him.”</p><p class="p1">Without looking at Mycroft, Sherlock responds, “I already have.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Chapter 18</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">Waking up in the hospital after a morphine-aided sleep, Greg groans and squints against the bright light assaulting him.</p>
<p class="p1">“Welcome back,” says a familiar, tender voice.</p>
<p class="p1">His mind dazed from the painkillers, Greg reaches a blind hand out and mumbles, “Mmm, Mycroft.”</p>
<p class="p1">“I’m here, Gregory. I’m here.” A warm hand clasps his own.</p>
<p class="p1">“Mmm. Good. Stay.” Sleep overtaking Greg again, their joined hands fall to the bed.</p>
<p class="p1">———</p>
<p class="p1">The next time he wakes, Greg’s mind is more clear, less hazy. Sally Donovan sits beside him. With a small smile, she says, “Good to see you, sir. You gave us quite a scare back at the Yard. Had to come see for myself that you were all right.”</p>
<p class="p1">Greg smirks weakly at her. “You’re just here to get a funny video of me while I’m drugged up, aren’t you?”</p>
<p class="p1">Chuckling, Sally nods in agreement. “Exactly.” She attempts a straight face, but her smile sneaks through. “Now, why aren’t you out of your head and all that? Trying to ruin my conniving plans?”</p>
<p class="p1">“When am I not?” Greg teases and tries to sit up. When a white-hot needle of pain shoots through his side, stealing his breath, he aborts the plan and collapses against the pillow, eyes squeezing closed with a groan.</p>
<p class="p1">Sally’s brow furrows, her concern evident. “Do you need me to get anything for you?”</p>
<p class="p1">“A larger dose of morphine,” Greg grumbles through clenched teeth. Sighing, he peels open his eyes and smacks a thick tongue inside his dry mouth. “A cup of water would be nice, actually.” Sally skirts around the bed to retrieve the plastic cup and straw and offers it to him. “Ta,” he says and takes it with his uncasted hand.</p>
<p class="p1">Sally’s gaze prickles on his skin as Greg sips the cool water, breathing carefully to spare his aching ribs. When he drops back against the pillow, she takes the cup from his loose grip but doesn’t move away. While he tries to find a comfortable position, his sergeant stands stiffly, biting her lip. Unable to find a good position, the discomfort overwhelming, Greg finally snaps. “What is it, Sally? You’ve got something to say, so say it.” </p>
<p class="p1">She avoids his gaze, spinning the cup in her hands. “Well, sir, respectfully...I mean I know you told me to drop it...but, sir—” With a deep breath, Sally looks up at him. “You should see the way he cares for you. He’s barely left your side this whole time, except to see John or his freak of a brother.” Greg gives her a questioning look, silently urging her to continue. “If you want to be with Mycroft, don’t let us stop you from being happy. I promise to keep my mouth shut about your relationship if a relationship is what you want.” Her lips quirk with amusement. “That isn’t to say I’ll stop messing with Sherlock or calling you out if I see something fishy going on.” Sally looks at the cup in her hands. “But after everything you’ve been through the past couple of years, I want you to be happy. You <em>deserve</em> to be happy.”</p>
<p class="p1">Greg clears his throat, taken aback. “Well, uhh, thank you? I mean, yes, thank you.” He pauses, gathering his thoughts. “These last couple of days have really put a whole new perspective on things, that’s for sure.” Picking at a loose thread in the blanket, he averts his eyes. “Has he really been here the whole time?”</p>
<p class="p1">Sally snorts and a smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth. “Pretty much, yeah. He’s only left once so far to clean up and eat. Otherwise, he was right back here or with one of the other two.” Rolling her eyes, she waves the cup toward the door. “Sherlock’s been causing havoc, though. John’s in intensive, and Sherlock’s in general. He just pulled a couple of stitches. Yells at poor Mycroft to let him see John every time he drops by.”</p>
<p class="p1">Greg runs a hand over his face and settles deeper into the pillows. “Good lord. Of course, he is, the bastard.”</p>
<p class="p1">A knock on the open door draws their attention. Mycroft, dressed in his normal three-piece suit, leans against it, observing the tip of his umbrella. “Informing the good Detective Inspector of the hellspawn’s antics, are we?” He casts a glance at the stunned sergeant’s face and smirks. “Good.”</p>
<p class="p1">Sally shoots Greg a look, eyebrows raised, before making her goodbyes and slipping out the door.</p>
<p class="p1">Once certain she is out of earshot, Greg turns to Mycroft. “How are they? How are you? Tell me everything.”</p>
<p class="p1">Pulling up a seat on Greg’s right side, Mycroft settles himself before looking him in the eyes. “John is still critical, but stable. Sherlock, as you have already heard, is terrorizing the staff. You are healing fine, though you do have a multitude of your own injuries: a few broken ribs, a dislocated thumb, a severe concussion, and some deep bruising.” He twirls the tip of his umbrella against the tiled floor before recounting the rest. “We have six of the team in custody, with enough evidence to put them away for a good long while. Antares is dead, though that is not a loss if I do say so myself.” Mycroft’s face twists with a grimace of distaste. “We will be ready to hold interviews with each member of the team in a few days. I am most intrigued to hear from Cassiopeia, especially in regards to her previous connection with Moriarty.”</p>
<p class="p1">With a furrowed brow and a quick look at Mycroft, Greg’s silent question is rebuffed with an eyebrow raised in answer. When Greg realizes there is no further information forthcoming, he asks, “How are <em>you</em>, My?”</p>
<p class="p1">Soft eyes and an easy smile answer his question even before Mycroft speaks. “Honestly? Much better now that you are awake and coherent again. Even though it’s only been a little over 24 hours,” Mycroft changes his focus to the handle of the umbrella, avoiding Greg’s eyes, “I’ve missed your voice. I’ve missed <em>you</em>.”</p>
<p class="p1">A grin breaks across Greg’s face, and he reaches for the hand draped over the chair’s arm. When their fingers touch, Mycroft jumps, looking toward him with widened eyes. Greg pulls his hand back in surprise, and the smile drops from his face, replaced with a confused frown.</p>
<p class="p1">“I’m sorry, I just thought…” Greg starts.</p>
<p class="p1">At the same time, Mycroft says, “I didn’t mean…”</p>
<p class="p1">They both stop and look at each other, waiting for the other to continue. With a wave of his hand, Mycroft gestures for Greg to start again.</p>
<p class="p1">Unable to meet the eyes of the gorgeous man he can no longer have, Greg looks to the loose thread he had fiddled with earlier and plucks at it again. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed.” He swallows, choosing his words carefully. “When you said that...you had missed me, I just thought...well, it doesn’t matter what I thought. I shouldn’t have assumed.” Continuing to gaze at the thread rolling between his thumb and forefinger, the silence draws on until Mycroft breaks it with an uncharacteristic plea.</p>
<p class="p1">“Gregory. Look at me,” he murmurs, “please.”</p>
<p class="p1">Greg drags his head up to look at Mycroft and finds soft, blue eyes and a tentative smile. Hope blossoms in his chest, even as his throat tightens.</p>
<p class="p1">“You startled me. I didn’t mean to cause you uncertainty or make you withdraw.” Mycroft offers his upturned hand to Greg. “I’ve been wanting and waiting to do this with you once you were fully cognizant.”</p>
<p class="p1">Greg’s smile returns, broader than before, and he takes the offered hand in his. When the words register fully, his brow knits together as he ponders the implication. “Wait. You mean, I’ve already gotten to hold your hand, and I don’t remember?”</p>
<p class="p1">Fingers now interlocked, Mycroft smirks. “Mhmm. You reached out, grabbed my hand, and asked me to stay.” He shrugs. “Who was I to refuse?” Nodding toward their joined hands, he adds, “Though, it was nothing quite like this.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Better?” Greg asks, rubbing a thumb over Mycroft’s knuckles.</p>
<p class="p1">“Indescribably so.”</p>
<p class="p1">~~~</p>
<p class="p1">The sound of steady beeping wakes John. Soft light shines under the closed door, and moonlight streams through the window, breaking into the darkness. The nurse checking his vitals notices he is awake and greets him in a hushed voice.</p>
<p class="p1">“Welcome back, Dr. Watson-Holmes.” With a smile, she points a thumb over her shoulder to the chair in the corner. “We’ve been waiting for you.”</p>
<p class="p1">John’s brow furrows and he looks up to find Sherlock slumped in the chair, his eyes closed and face slack. When he tries to speak, a raspy breath escapes instead, making him cough weakly, his body aching and protesting the movement. Swallowing feels like sandpaper rubbing against steel wool.</p>
<p class="p1">The nurse hands him a cup. “Here. Suck on these. Your throat is probably dried out.” Taking the cup, John looks inside to find ice chips. Relieved, he pops one into his mouth, letting the cold melt against his tongue. “It’s been two days since you were brought in. This one—” the nurse gestures to the chair again, “wouldn’t stop yelling and insulting the staff until we brought him in here. He should be in a bed himself.”</p>
<p class="p1">Sherlock shifts, attempting to support his head against the chair back. When his leg slips, he jolts up, looking around frantically. He sees the nurse and then John. In one quick movement, Sherlock is by his side. With a small smile, the nurse finishes checking the IV drip, marks the chart, and heads out the door.</p>
<p class="p1">The whole time, Sherlock gazes down at him, silent and searching. John swallows some of the cool water left in his mouth by the ice, feeling the smooth slide down his throat. He hasn’t enjoyed the sensation of drinking in almost a week and it’s a relief. It means he is almost home.</p>
<p class="p1">Ready to talk, he pats the bed, silently asking for Sherlock to join him.</p>
<p class="p1">Achingly slow, Sherlock positions himself next to John, careful to avoid jostling him or the IV lines. Once settled, he rattles off answers to the questions he reads on John’s face.</p>
<p class="p1">“You were taken in for emergency surgery to stop the bleeding. No organs were damaged other than the skin and muscles, and those that were bruised from the beatings you endured.” Sherlock’s brows draw together, the only sign of his emotional response to the data. “You have been on morphine since the surgery and woke a few times, each with no memory retention or full awareness until now. I am fine, and my stitches have been replaced...again.” John glares, but Sherlock waves him off and continues, “Yes, yes. <em>Again</em>. You were kidnapped, John. Of course I tore a few stitches in my haste.” He gives John a pointed look of his own in return. “As I was saying, I am <em>fine</em>. Lestrade is also fine, and seemingly now dating Mycroft,” he rolls his eyes, “who is also fine. One might even say ‘happy,’ if such a word can be applied to my brother.”</p>
<p class="p1">A smile spreads across John’s bruised face. “Fucking finally,” he says, voice rough and grating. Sherlock stares at him with a raised brow.</p>
<p class="p1">Now it’s John’s turn to roll his eyes. He sucks on another ice chip and explains, “Seriously? Greg’s been in love with him for months, <em>years</em> even. They were just...” he looks at Sherlock and smiles. “Idiots.”</p>
<p class="p1">Sherlock returns the smile, his expression fond. “That sounds familiar.” The smile drops, and Sherlock turns to look out the window, fidgeting with the cuff of his sleeve. “Or at least, it did.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Right. I forgot about that.” John takes hold of the fidgeting hand and runs his thumb over the silver gleaming against Sherlock’s ring finger. Sherlock gazes at their joined hands, watching the movement of John’s thumb, stroking back and forth. After a moment, John gives the detective’s hand a small squeeze. “Tell me what’s going on in that big brain of yours, and we’ll get those wires uncrossed.”</p>
<p class="p1">Their eyes meet. Even in the dim light of the room, John’s breath catches at the beauty and intelligence shining there. While his husband searches for something, some tell in his face, John sits, open and waiting. Finally, Sherlock starts.</p>
<p class="p1">“I called you Anderson, forgot what month it was and, therefore, that our anniversary was coming up.I knew you were angry with me for not taking care of myself and all the rest. As a result, I told you to go to Lestrade’s.” He hesitates, gathering his words. “I thought you should have the space you needed. Apparently, that was a bit...not good. I didn’t think you were coming back, which I would have understood completely.” Casting his gaze away again, Sherlock sighs and sits up straighter. He seems to steel himself as his hand trembles in John’s. “You deserve so much better than I can offer. I want to thank you for everything you’ve taught me, shown me. These...these last few years have been the best of my life for knowing you. I will cherish them. You, of course—”</p>
<p class="p1">“Alright, stop. Stop right there,” John cuts in. He squeezes Sherlock’s hand, tugging it toward himself, urging Sherlock to look at him. “Hey, love. Look at me. Please.” Finally, he finds Sherlock’s gaze. “First off, I <em>love</em> you, you great big idiot. I don’t want to leave, now that I have you. Not ever. Secondly,” he pauses to take a deep breath and pop another ice chip past his lips. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for not letting you explain when I was angry. I thought you didn’t remember our anniversary date, not that you didn’t remember what month it was. I should have realized.”</p>
<p class="p1">Sherlock stares at him, blinking. “You...you don’t want to leave,” he states, tone firm even in his confusion.</p>
<p class="p1">Resisting the urge to chuckle, knowing it will hurt if he does, John smiles instead. “No, you ridiculous man, I don’t. I just don’t want you to leave either.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Well, I think that can be arranged.” Sherlock squeezes John’s hand before letting go. After standing carefully, he brushes the hair off John’s forehead before gently pressing his lips to the same spot. He murmurs against the skin, “This is the only place I don’t feel as if I’d hurt you.” When Sherlock steps back, John sighs and lets his eyes slide shut, wishing for more. With one last trail of fingers down his cheek, Sherlock brushes his lips over John’s ear, whispering, “Sleep, now. We can talk more when you’ve rested.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Stay?”</p>
<p class="p1">John can hear the smile in Sherlock’s voice. “Always.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Well everyone, we are coming up on the end of the story! If you don't want pure fluff and smut, I suggest chapter 19 to be your last! Thank you to everyone who has joined on this journey so far :) It's meant a lot!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Chapter 19</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Well, folks! As I mentioned last time, if you aren't interested in the Johnlock fluff and smut, welcome to your last chapter! I do hope you enjoyed the journey! If you are interested, stay tuned for tomorrow's chapter!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">A week later finds them in a cemetery, the sun shining overhead. To Sherlock, the bright, cheery weather feels wrong. The world should be as dark and gloomy as his mood. Aren’t funerals meant to be attended by people dressed in black, in the rain, with a dark figure looming behind a nearby tree? Maybe that had been unique to his alone, Sherlock looming on the periphery at his own funeral.</p><p class="p1">This time, he is just one of the people wearing black, baffled by the perfect sunny atmosphere.</p><p class="p1">John stands next to him, stiff and sore with healing but holding his hand throughout the short service nonetheless. There are more people in attendance than Sherlock anticipated. To his surprise, it seems Sal had been well-liked. Scanning the gathered crowd, Sherlock easily picks out a fair number of his own Homeless Network, as expected. Unexpected are the several high-level businessmen he deduces in the group. These are interesting, unlike the reporters he susses out, here to fish for his and John’s story. Also, standing to the side, is Molly.</p><p class="p1">When the service ends and people have paid their respects, Molly finds her way over to John and Sherlock are speaking quietly about the gathered mourners. With a small wave, she inserts herself into the conversation.</p><p class="p1">“Hello, you two. It’s good to see up and about, John. Though, the reason is quite horrible.” A deep frown cuts across her face. “It’s really quite horrible, isn’t it? He...he was such..such a good man.” Fighting back tears, Molly bites her lower lip before continuing, “I am really lucky to have gotten to know him. He was so smart and really, really kind. Came by regularly when we had a John or Jane Doe.” Her misty eyes shine with the treasured memory, her smile watery. “See if he could help identify them and contact any friends or family. It was always nice to talk with him when there wasn’t someone to have to identify. Told me about his day, asked about mine. Just an all-around sweetheart.” The smile drops again, and tears spill over the corner of her eyes.</p><p class="p1">John wraps an arm around her shoulders. “Oh God, Molly, I know. I know.” Burying her head into his shoulder, Molly lets out a few large sobs. Then, with a few deep breaths guided by John, she calms.</p><p class="p1">Stepping back, she gives a half-smile. “I’m sorry I’m such a mess. But thank you. For...for setting all this up and everything.” She gestures at the scene around them, wiping at her wet eyes. While Molly is looking elsewhere, John shoots a glance at Sherlock, indicating with his head towards Molly. Taking the hint, Sherlock sighs.</p><p class="p1">“Molly, would you care to join John, Mrs. Hudson, and I at 221B for a sort of memorial service for Sal?”</p><p class="p1">Turning wide eyes back to him, Molly gives her first real smile, albeit a small one. “I think I’d like that very much. Thank you.”</p><p class="p1">———</p><p class="p1">John and Sherlock find themselves in the back of a cab on their way back to Baker Street. Sitting silently, staring at the back of the headrest in front of him, Sherlock’s mind goes blank. It’s been almost two weeks since Sal left them, and Sherlock still can’t make sense of the world without him in it.</p><p class="p1">“Come here,” John says, pulling him over. Sherlock’s head flops into the nook between his shoulder and neck, and John wraps an arm around him. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on up there?”</p><p class="p1">“I can’t,” comes Sherlock’s flat response.</p><p class="p1">“What do you mean, you can’t? That terrible?”</p><p class="p1">“No. There is just...nothing.” Sherlock waves his hand in a vague gesture. “I’ve never truly experienced such a thing before. Not like this.”</p><p class="p1">John squeezes Sherlock’s arm and presses a kiss to the top of his head. “Oh, love,” he murmurs, combing his fingers through dark curls.</p><p class="p1">Sitting up suddenly, Sherlock clutches John’s shoulders, angling the other man toward himself.When he speaks, his voice is sharp. “Is this what I did to you? When I left?” Even to his own ears, he sounds desperate.</p><p class="p1">A sad smile breaks over John’s face. “I’d say something very similar, yeah. Everyone experiences grief differently. But, yeah. It was horrid.” Pulling in an unsteady breath, John’s eyes lower briefly. “Took me months to make sense of the world again. And then a year went by and it hit me like a train all over again.” He cups Sherlock’s cheek in his warm hand, and Sherlock leans into the touch, eyes sliding closed. “This is why I have such a hard time when you don’t take care of yourself, you know.”</p><p class="p1">Opening his eyes to find John’s warm blue ones looking back at him, Sherlock admits, “I don’t think I did, but I do now.” Biting his lip, his voice breaks. “I don’t know what I’d do without you alive in the world, John. A week showed me what the threat of that could feel like, and it was too much.” Sherlock shakes his head and grabs John’s hands in his. “I don’t know what I’d do.”</p><p class="p1">Slowly, John tips Sherlock’s chin up to look into his eyes. “You would carry on, like I did. It sucks. And it hurts. But you surround yourself with the people who love you, just like we are about to do, and sit in it until it hurts less. That’s all you can do.” His smile is small and soft with sorrow.</p><p class="p1">Sherlock nods and squeezes John’s arm lightly before the cab comes to a stop. Sherlock hands bills of an uncertain amount to the cabbie, and they exit together. Standing hand in hand in front of the familiar black door with the gold knocker, Sherlock says, “Well, carry on we must, then.”</p><p class="p1">Together, they enter their home.</p><p class="p1">———</p><p class="p1">As they approach the door to the flat, Sherlock hears voices drifting into the stairwell. The gruff tone of Lestrade, the sing-song of Mrs. Hudson, the soft, nasal quality of Mycroft, the breathy-ness of Molly. All the sounds of the weird little family they’ve made, mostly because of the man standing next to him, wearing the matching ring to his. These are people that have been in Sherlock’s life for years, nothing more than barely tolerated acquaintances until John came along and transformed them. Made them more, somehow. Just as he has done with Sherlock.</p><p class="p1">With a deep breath and a strong grip on John’s hand, Sherlock leads the way inside. Stepping over the threshold, he is met with subdued greetings and weak smiles.</p><p class="p1">Mrs. Hudson, already standing, starts bustling around, making sure everyone has tea and more biscuits than they can handle. Before John and Sherlock have removed their coats and shoes, she hands them warm, full cups with mutterings of, “Must have tea. Tea always helps these things. Poor dears.” Mrs. Hudson leans in to whisper to John, not quite realizing Sherlockoverhears, “I made his favorite, the ones with the chocolate. I’m hoping it helps take his mind off all this awful business. You know, dear.” With a pat to John’s shoulder, she speaks up again, louder this time. “Why are you still in your coats, boys? Off, off.” Taking the cups back from them, she tuts at them. “Hurry up now. Go join your guests.” With the coats removed, she hands them the mugs again and waves them away.</p><p class="p1">Once her back is to them, John looks up at Sherlock and rolls his eyes with a fond smile. Sherlock returns the look. Still, they follow Mrs. Hudson’s orders and move into the kitchen where everyone else is seated. Sherlock can tell John is silently blessing Mrs. Hudson for cleaning the area of his experiments while they were at the funeral. Letting the soft conversation flow over and around him, he takes a seat.</p><p class="p1">Time passes. Sherlock knows this because silence fills the kitchen and everyone’s soft gazes are on him. His touch soothing, John rubs a thumb over his knuckles.</p><p class="p1">“I’m...I’m sorry.” Looking to John for help, Sherlock asks, “What did I miss?”</p><p class="p1">Sadness and worry quickly pass over John’s face, and then they’re gone. “Molly asked you how we are planning on celebrating our anniversary.”</p><p class="p1">“It’s already passed. Why would…” Glancing around the table, he pauses. “Ah. Right. That wasn’t the real question nor the right answer.” Sherlock looks at everyone, one at a time. “Let me make this perfectly clear...” he pauses, brow furrowed, and forges on. “Thank you. I know you are all concerned because of everything that has happened over these past few weeks. I won’t say that I am fine. But, what I will say is that it is what it is.” Sherlock shoots a glance at John to find a small smile before looking at the rest of them. “With all of you l here, helping, I <em>will</em> be fine.”</p><p class="p1">Mrs. Hudson breaks the silence first. “Oh, Sherlock.” She flutters her hands as she walks around the table to wrap him in a hug.</p><p class="p1">Reaching over, Molly gives his hand a squeeze and a small smile.</p><p class="p1">To lighten the mood, Lestrade takes hold of Mycroft’s hand and turns to John. “So what <em>is </em>the plan for the anniversary?” He finishes the comment with a wink.</p><p class="p1">John rolls his eyes and nods over at the joined hands of Lestrade and Mycroft. “Looks like I should be asking you a similar question, huh, Greggie? Something you’d like to share with the class?”</p><p class="p1">“Oh, come off it. You all already know we’re dating. Why make a big deal of it?”</p><p class="p1">Molly blushes. Sherlock steps in before John gets a chance, imitating John perfectly. “Because, <em>Greggie</em>, I’ve been told this has been in the works for <em>years</em>, and we have the right to tease you for it.”</p><p class="p1">That does the trick. Giggles break out, and before long, roaring laughter overtakes them. Mrs. Hudson and Molly lean into each other, Lestrade drying tears from his eyes as Mycroft covers his mouth and shakes. John’s eyes crinkle from the smile on his face. Looking around, Sherlock sees this group, his family, and knows that he will actually be fine.</p><p class="p1">Leaning toward John, he whispers, “I promise I’ll make sure our anniversary next year is better. Spending this one in the hospital was certainly <em>not</em> part of the plan.”</p><p class="p1">With raised eyebrows, John responds, “Oh? There was a plan, was there?”</p><p class="p1">Wobbling his head back and forth, Sherlock shrugs. His eyes glimmer, mischievous. “Perhaps.”</p><p class="p1">“Well, if that’s the case, what about celebrating a little late?” John’s smile is slow and sly. “You’re healed, and I’m on the mend. A night out might do us some good.”</p><p class="p1">“What are you two whispering about over there?” Molly asks, interrupting their quiet conversation.</p><p class="p1">John raises one shoulder in a slight shrug. “Oh, a little of this, a little of that.”</p><p class="p1">Sherlock’s lips quirk, amused. “John was just recommending we celebrate a belated anniversary.”</p><p class="p1">Chiming in, Mrs. Hudson exclaims, “Oh, that’s a wonderful idea!” Bumping shoulders with Molly, she winks. “Isn’t that right, Molly?”</p><p class="p1">Rolling her eyes, Molly cottons on. “Why, yes, Mrs. Hudson. That’s a wonderful idea! I’m glad <em>they</em> thought of it.” She shoots a half-hearted glare in their direction, offset by the hint of a smile on her face.</p><p class="p1">“Be nice, now. No need for teasing just because we boys are a little slow on the uptake.” Greg winks over at Molly, too.</p><p class="p1">Gesturing for calm, John settles the topic. “Alright. Fine. Belated anniversary it is.” A broad smile blooms on his face as he takes Sherlock’s hand in his. “We’ve needed a proper first date, anyway.”</p><p class="p1">~~~</p><p class="p1">The next day, mid-morning finds Gregory and Mycroft in an interrogation room with Cassiopeia. After promising to provide information as long as she was the last to be interviewed, and only by Mycroft, she offers an intriguing potential for answers. Uncertain of what she will tell them or how truthful any of her admissions will be, Mycroft decides to keep the meeting between himself and Gregory. Sherlock and John have too much on their plate as it is.</p><p class="p1">Entering the room, he casts a cursory glance around the space. Nothing untoward or out of protocol to note. Cassiopeia sits behind the table, her hands and feet cuffed together. He strides to the chair and sits, Gregory observing from behind the one-way glass.</p><p class="p1">“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Mycroft offers a polite smile, playing at false pleasantries.</p><p class="p1">A sneer curls Cassiopeia’s mouth. “Oh, where to begin? Well. Let’s start with the facts.”</p><p class="p1">Picking a piece of lint off his trousers, Mycroft doesn’t deign to respond.</p><p class="p1">“Have you ever seen the <em>Princess Bride</em>? It’s always been one of my favorites.” Mycroft looks up at the unexpected words, boredom written across his features. Still sneering, Cassiopeia continues. “It’s got <em>everything.</em> Magic, sword fighting, humor. Idiocy, pirates.” Drawing out the last word, she tilts her head to the side. “I’m assuming you know the story. The Dread Pirate Roberts. A name, a title. Easily passed from one person to another. The Doctor. Bond, James Bond. <em>Moriarity.</em>” The last is almost a hiss.</p><p class="p1">Mycroft hides his surprise beneath a sardonic gaze. “Really, now. If all you have for me are pieces of fiction and fairy tales, please don’t waste my time.”</p><p class="p1">Leaning back in her chair, Cassiopeia quirks an eyebrow. “Oh, but I’m <em>not</em>. You see, when I heard Moriarty had offed himself, I had already developed a nice little gig. It was running smoothly without much help from him, so I split. That’s the wonderful thing about my expertise—I know how to access his accounts, his connections, his...” she looks pointedly at him. “Unfinished business.”</p><p class="p1">Controlling his breathing, Mycroft holds her gaze. The implications of what Cassiopeia is saying do not bode well for him or anyone else.</p><p class="p1">Cassiopeia leans over the table, hands folded to accommodate the cuffs. “After hearing the boss rave about him for so long, I was surprised it took him as long as it did to notice the pattern. Two years, we tried to entice him. It wasn’t until we found a particularly near and dear one that he picked up on the scent. Had to leave it lying around in an ally just to make sure. And then the husband, oh the dumb husband, made it so easy to pick him up. Trusted you and that copper too much, I’d say. Got lazy.”</p><p class="p1">At this point, Mycroft imagines he can practically hear Gregory swearing behind the one-way glass.</p><p class="p1">“But don’t you worry, Mr. Holmes.” The predatory smile that slips along her face forces him to suppress a shiver. “Lucky for you, I’ve retired.”</p><p class="p1">———</p><p class="p1">“We are <em>not</em> telling him, Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice is firm, final. “He spent two years,<em> two years,</em> of his life tracking down Moriarty’s network and destroying what we believed to be all of it.” He runs a hand over his face, desolate. “If we tell him, I don’t know what he will do.”</p><p class="p1">“I know,” Gregory sighs. “Oh God, I know. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it. They are obviously in danger!” Throwing his hands up in the air, he turns back to Mycroft, expression one of frustrated acceptance. “What do we do?”</p><p class="p1">“We pretend,” Mycroft replies grimly. “We increase security. We let Sherlock and John get angry with us for being overprotective. We investigate.” He takes hold of Gregory’s hands. <em>“Together.” </em></p><p class="p1">With another deep sigh, Gregory drops his forehead against Mycroft’s shoulder. “Ok. But we have to tell them at some point. Bring them in. Deal?”</p><p class="p1">Rubbing a hand over Gregory’s back, Mycroft places a kiss into his hair. “Of course.”</p><p class="p1">Gregory lifts his head and searches Mycroft’s eyes, looking for something. After a long moment, seeming to find it, he says, “God, I love you. Even though I hate you right now, I do. I love you.”</p><p class="p1">The heat blooms across Mycroft’s chest, creeping up into his face. “I love you, too, Gregory. I’m sorry I’m forcing you to keep this a secret.”</p><p class="p1">Shaking his head, Gregory smiles. “It’s not for long. And, as you said, it will be both of us. Together.”</p><p class="p1">Mycroft presses his forehead to Gregory’s. “Yes, together,” he breathes. He can feel hot air ghosting his lips before it is replaced by a soft mouth and stubble-dusted skin against his.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Chapter 20</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">Angelo’s. It is always Angelo’s. That first night they met, the first non-rage filled dinner after Sherlock’s return, John’s proposal, the rehearsal dinner. All their big moments, including their first real date. John’s not quite sure how it happened. But in the chaos of their life together, they have sort of...<em>done life.</em> Obviously, there have been a multitude of date-adjacent dinners and events. A lot of the two of them going out, having fun, nothing proper.</p>
<p class="p1">And now, a year into their marriage, here they are at Angelo’s, having a proper first date.</p>
<p class="p1">John is ecstatic. Only out of the hospital a few days, he is careful not to overdo it. And Sherlock is being perfectly, unsurprisingly himself, planning everything to a tee. The same table as that first night. The same courses, the same damn <em>candle,</em> same two glasses of wine. Finding himself staring at his frankly gorgeous husband, John smiles.</p>
<p class="p1">“How long have you had this planned?” he finally asks.</p>
<p class="p1">Sherlock looks up from his food to take a sip of wine.</p>
<p class="p1">Stalling. Strange. John prompts him again, “How long, Sherlock?”</p>
<p class="p1">Sherlock mutters something into the edge of the glass, trailing off into another sip. Tilting his head, John gives him an annoyed look, raises his eyebrow, and waits. After placing his glass on the table and repositioning it, Sherlock finally meets John’s gaze. “One year and six days.”</p>
<p class="p1">John puts his fork down before leaning back and crossing his arms. “Hold on. You’re telling me, you’ve been planning this since the day of our wedding.” It is not a question.</p>
<p class="p1">“Yes, John.” Sherlock rolls his eyes as if this is painfully obvious information. “And this is only part of it. I had originally planned out the whole day. But that would have been too much for you in your current state.”</p>
<p class="p1">John’s jaw drops. “The <em>whole day?</em> What were we going to do for the <em>whole day?” </em></p>
<p class="p1">Blushing, Sherlock swirls his glass, focusing on the rings the wine leaves on the inside. “Well, I was going to take us on a tour of London. <em>Our</em> London. The crime scenes, the parks, our walks. All the places important to us. And it would end here, at Angelo’s.” He shoots a quick glance at John and his blush deepens.</p>
<p class="p1">A slow smile grows on John’s face. “Oh, no it didn’t. Angelo’s is not the most important place to us. And you know that.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Well, it is for right now,” Sherlock insists.</p>
<p class="p1">Grinning wider, John pushes a little more. “Have I told you recently just how stunning you are?”</p>
<p class="p1">At this point, Sherlock glares at him. “You are injured and still healing. Keep your trousers on, Watson.”</p>
<p class="p1">John runs his foot up the side of Sherlock’s calf, brow raised. “Love. Look at me. <em>Really</em> look at me.” Sherlock lets his gaze roam over John, and his eyes widen.</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh. <em>Oh.</em> Are you really doing that much better?”</p>
<p class="p1">John shrugs. “We’ll have to be careful. If we go slow, it’ll be fine.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Obviously.” Looking down at his plate, Sherlock starts to eat again. Between bites he adds, “The original plan <em>did</em> involve an outfit change before dinner.”</p>
<p class="p1">John’s breath catches, and he breathes, “The suit?”</p>
<p class="p1">“The suit,” Sherlock confirms, smirking at him. “I know how much you loved me in it at our wedding.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Not as much as I loved taking it off you,” John murmurs, eyes dropping to half-mast. Another blush blooms up Sherlock’s neck and across his cheeks in response, and John smiles. “God, I love making you blush.” He takes Sherlock’s hand in his. “I love <em>you.</em> So much.”</p>
<p class="p1">“And I you, John,” Sherlock replies, looking bashfully pleased.</p>
<p class="p1">Once they have finished their plates,Angelo clears the table before bringing out a surprise. “Congratulations, you two,” he declares with a saucy wink. “Enjoy your night!”</p>
<p class="p1">Opening the takeaway box, John finds the top tier of their small wedding cake. His breathing catches, and he glances up at Sherlock in surprise.</p>
<p class="p1">“I told you,” Sherlock whispers, his voice low next to John’s ear. It makes him shiver. “I’ve been planning this for a while.”</p>
<p class="p1">Another shiver runs down John’s spine. “When we get home, will you please put on the suit?”</p>
<p class="p1">Casting a glance at John over his shoulder, Sherlock smirks and nods, eyelashes lowering demurely over his eyes. “Of course.”</p>
<p class="p1">John pulls in a stuttering breath and bites his lip. “Then why are we still here?”</p>
<p class="p1">———</p>
<p class="p1">Arriving back at Baker Street, they head upstairs in a rush, John to their bathroom and Sherlock to the bedroom to change into his wedding suit. Pulling off his shirt, John looks his body over in the mirror. He runs a hand over his face and decides a shave is needed. He carefully runs a razor over the still healing skin and bruises, stubbornly lingering from the orbital break and repeated poundings. Thankfully, most of the aching pain associated with them has disappeared.</p>
<p class="p1">After the shave, he wets his fingers and combs them through his hair. It has grown longer than he usually keeps it. Swooping it over to one side to keep it out of his face, John sighs deeply, thinking he looks truly terrible with still-healing injuries and the horrid colors mottling his skin in sickly greens, yellows, and blues. Replacing the bandage, he sees the stark black stitches marring his stomach. He looks a mess.</p>
<p class="p1">A knock breaks into his musings before Sherlock opens the door. Spreading his arms out, he does a spin, making sure to pause with his back to John, knowing how much he enjoys that particular view before finishing the twirl. John can’t help but smile at his ridiculous, gorgeous husband.</p>
<p class="p1">“God, look at you. It fits just as perfectly as it did a year ago.” Gazing into his eyes, John walks over and puts his hands on Sherlock’s chest. “You are absolutely stunning, Sherlock.”</p>
<p class="p1">Sherlock brushes hair away from John’s eyes and runs a finger down his freshly-shaved jaw. “You shaved.”</p>
<p class="p1">John chuckles, swaying closer with a coy little grin. “Yeah. Noticed that, did you?”</p>
<p class="p1">“I notice<em> everything.”</em> Sherlock leans down and places a kiss to where he brushed back the hair. “I noticed you shaved.” Lips press to his temple. “And, I noticed you attempted to slick back your hair.” A soft kiss to John’s cheekbone. “I noticed that you are thinking completely incorrect thoughts about yourself.” A final kiss to a smooth cheek. “And I fully plan to remedy the last one.”</p>
<p class="p1">John looks away from those all-knowing eyes until he feels a finger on his chin, Sherlock steering his attention back to him.</p>
<p class="p1">“John. You have endured war, loss, kidnapping, and torture. Even still, you find ways to love, laugh, and just be you, utterly <em>you.</em> Don’t you think I might find that, find <em>you,</em> incredibly arousing?” Sherlock presses his body against John’s to the point where he can not deny the evidence of Sherlock’s words, pressing hard against his thigh. “You are the most gorgeous man I have ever met. Your life and the proof of your survival and how you’ve flourished only adds to the allure.” He traces a gentle finger over the bandage on John’s stomach before sliding his hand up the side of John’s torso.</p>
<p class="p1">Feeling a little more like himself, John runs his hands down Sherlock’s chest to unbutton his jacket. “Then let’s get you out of this, shall we?” As he slides the jacket off of Sherlock’s shoulders, he presses their lips together. A moan escapes his throat. Speaking against lips and between kisses, he says, “Oh God, I’ve <em>missed</em> you. Remind me to kiss you more.” Tossing the jacket to the side to be dealt with later, he guides Sherlock further into their room, backing him toward the bed.</p>
<p class="p1">John pulls Sherlock’s lower lip in between his teeth and scrapes his tongue along the slick inside. The sound Sherlock makes in response builds heat in John’s stomach while Sherlock’s hands run over his back and shoulders. Pulling away, John untucks Sherlock’s shirt and undoes the buttons, kissing the newly exposed skin after each one.</p>
<p class="p1">“John,” Sherlock moans, hands tangling in his hair, pulling a sigh from John.</p>
<p class="p1">When he undoes the last button, John rights himself and uses the shirt collar to pull Sherlock’s mouth to his. Deepening the kiss, Sherlock undoes the cuff buttons with his arms draped over John’s shoulders and shrugs the shirt onto the floor. When John’s tongue slips into his mouth, Sherlock groans, clutchingJohn for balance. He wraps an arm around Sherlock’s waist and backs him into the edge of the bed to sit.</p>
<p class="p1">Leaning back, John’s legs straddling his, Sherlock’s eyes roam over John’s body. “God, John,” he breathes before sitting up and working to pull off John’s trousers. Stepping up to help Sherlock pull them over his feet, John’s cock strains against the fabric of his pants, outlined by the soft material. Sherlock runs a finger up the length, making it twitch in response to his touch. He slips his fingers beneath the waistband and pulls them off.</p>
<p class="p1">“You’re falling behind, love,” John teases as he reaches for Sherlock. Falling back on the bed, Sherlock helps John pull off both his trousers and pants in one smooth yank.</p>
<p class="p1">While Sherlock is still lying back on the bed, body loose, John stands between his legs and runs his hands up his thighs, his sides, over his chest. “God, you are <em>beautiful.”</em> He watches a bright flush start under his hands at the words, working its way up Sherlock’s neck and into his face. Sitting up, propped on his elbows, Sherlock lets his eyes rake over John’s fully exposed body. John feels that intense gaze linger on his cock, which hardens under the attention.</p>
<p class="p1">Sherlock pats the beds next to him. “Come here,” he orders, and John obliges, crawling onto the bed carefully and lying down on his back to compensate for his still-healing left shoulder. Turning onto his side, Sherlock slides up next to John and presses the full length of his body into his. Kissing his shoulder and then the spot behind his ear, Sherlock asks, “I know you said slow and careful. But what were you hoping for?”</p>
<p class="p1">John looks over at him and smiles. “You. All of you. Over me, in me. Just anything with <em>you.” </em></p>
<p class="p1">Sherlock leans forward and kisses him soundly, murmuring, “Ok.” With a soft smile, he climbs off the bed to grab the lube from the nightstand. When he returns, Sherlock puts it aside and sits between John’s bent legs.</p>
<p class="p1">John gazes at his husband as he starts running his hands up the outside of John’s thighs. He traces the V where they meet his body with playful fingertips, sliding along the insides and back down the length of his legs again. On the fourth pass, he surprises John, changing course and trails his hands up John’s sides, over his chest. The slow slide of Sherlock’s hands over John’s body both relax and arouse him, leaving him feeling finally content for the first time in ages.</p>
<p class="p1">Passing his thumbs over John’s nipples, making them peak in response, Sherlock slides his hands over John’s shoulders and down his arms. He sweeps back up, letting his fingertips dance across collar bones and up his neck, into his hair. John leans into the touch with a hum. Pausing to play with the silvered stands, Sherlock lets his hands slide back down the length of John’s body, carefully avoiding the bandage, sweeping down to meet John’s erection.</p>
<p class="p1">Teasingly light, he uses one hand to rub up and down the length of John’s cock, grabbing the lube with the other. John’s sharp intake of breath at the surprising touch lends to his own excitement. Squeezing lube into his hand, Sherlock warms it between his palms before taking a hold of John again. The firmer, lubricated grip makes John throw his head back against the bed and lift his hips at the sensation.</p>
<p class="p1">Sherlock’s deep chuckle rumbles above him. “Like that, do you?”</p>
<p class="p1">John’s only response is a low, breathless moan.</p>
<p class="p1">As Sherlock continues to run one hand slowly and steadily over John’s erection, he fondles John testicles in the other, teasing before slipping a finger back to press against his perineum. John’s gasp encourages him, and he continues further back, circling around John’s hole. The mix of sensations drives John wild, while the pace keeps him well enough in control to keep from hurting himself. When Sherlock runs a thumb over the head of his cock, mixing pre-come with lube, John’s shuddering breath is loud in the dark room. “Oh, god. <em>Sherlock.</em>”</p>
<p class="p1">When the first finger enters, Sherlock swirling his thumb over the slit of his eager erection, John can’t help but let out a sharp gasp, followed by a deep groan. Biting his lip as Sherlock slowly works him open, John tries to regain control of his reactions. It’s been too long, he doesn’t want this to end too soon. Sherlock adds a second finger, the pain of the stretch mitigated by Sherlock’s dexterous fingers along his cock. When Sherlock hooks his fingers in just the right way, brushing over his prostate, a wave of pleasure washes over John, and he cries out.</p>
<p class="p1">It’s been<em> much</em> too long.</p>
<p class="p1">Sherlock continues his slow, languid process. By the time John is fully open, a sheen of sweat covers his skin. Sherlock removes his fingers and kisses a line up John’s body, finding his lips.Keeping their mouths locked together in a tangle of teeth and tongues, Sherlock lifts John’s hips and slips a pillow beneath them.</p>
<p class="p1">Sherlock reaches for the lube again, John watching as Sherlock coats himself, his slender cock now achingly hard. The sight is almost too much for John to handle, and he drops his head back to the pillow. Sherlock positions himself, entering John, the stretch just that much more than before, but exactly what John is aching for. Sherlock goes slow, taking his time to let John adjust until he is fully seated inside him, hips flush with John’s body.</p>
<p class="p1">John locks his ankles around Sherlock’s back, knowing his injuries will be fine. Sherlock takes the action for the silent demand that it is and leans himself over John, starting to move in smooth, shallow thrusts. When John looks up into his eyes, Sherlock is stunning, his pupils blown wide. </p>
<p class="p1">“Oh, John,” Sherlock breathes against his cheek, the words heavy with love, relief, and the sense of home.</p>
<p class="p1">“I know. Oh. Oh, <em>God,” </em>John pants. “I know.” Reaching a hand between them, John strokes himself in time with Sherlock’s slow thrusts. Their heavy breathing and moans merge, filling the air of the darkened bedroom. Now that they are here, John knows it won’t take long for either of them to finish. The steady slide of Sherlock’s hips elicit waves of bliss throughout his body, and he feels the muscles in Sherlock’s back tighten as he gets close to climax. “Oh, love,” he breathes, face flushed and hot with his own aching pleasure. “Sherlock. <em>Sherlock, </em>come for me.”</p>
<p class="p1">John watches Sherlock’s orgasm crash over him, helping him tip over the edge himself, spilling over his hand and onto his belly. Riding out the stunning euphoria running through his body, John lets his limbs go lax, arms and legs dropping to the bed. Sherlock leans over him, keeping his weight from crashing down, pressing kisses over his face and his neck before he pulls out and collapses next to him.</p>
<p class="p1">Wrapping his arm around him, John pulls Sherlock close. “Come here. We’ll clean up in a second.” He kisses the head of curls laying on his chest, while Sherlock traces patterns with his fingers over John’s pecs and across the scar marring his left shoulder.</p>
<p class="p1">“I missed you,” Sherlock breathes, the words barely above a whisper, the deep tone of his voice vibrating against John’s body. “I was so scared that I had lost you when I realized they had taken you.”</p>
<p class="p1">Squeezing Sherlock tighter, mindful of their healing wounds, John responds, “Oh, love. I knew you would find me. I had to come home to you.” He rubs a hand over Sherlock’s arm. “You were actually what got me through it. I missed you each and every second I was there.”</p>
<p class="p1">They fall silent after that, just enjoying the presence and feel of each other. When John finally lets Sherlock go, they shuffle to the bathroom to clean up. Returning to the bedroom, they turn off the lights and throw off the top cover of the bed. After crawling under the sheets, John lays on his back and pulls Sherlock against him again, legs tangling together. He turns his head to kiss Sherlock in the dark and murmurs into his curls, “I love you.”</p>
<p class="p1">Breathing a content sigh, Sherlock nuzzles his cheek into John’s right shoulder and whispers back, “I love you, too, John.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you all for joining me on this journey of a first long fic! You've gotten to experience my first real angst, first action scenes, first case, and first smut. I hope you enjoyed! Once again thank you to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork">simplyclockwork</a> for her amazing beta work and prompt and guidance through this!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>